Keeping the Faith
by RenegadeCSI
Summary: A seemingly routine excursion following a new lead on an old case results in an unexpected betrayal and becomes a nervewracking ordeal for Grissom and Nick. Set before Ecklie gets promoted and breaks up the team. First CSI fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**Missing Person, Times Two**

**Start of Wednesday Graveyard Shift**

Catherine Willows almost ran from the LVPD parking lot into the building and down the corridors to the labs and offices of the Crime Scene Investigation unit. The tan slacks and pale beige blouse that had been so crisp and fresh when she dressed for work were smudged with black, and she doubted that the best dry-cleaner in town would be able to erase the stains from her rust-colored leather blazer. Similar grime streaked her chin and cheek and marred the manicure on which she'd spent two hours of her precious time off. She uttered a string of minor curses under her breath as she scanned the hallways for her boss, hoping that she would have time to clean up a bit before being dispatched on a case.

She blew out a relieved breath when she saw no sign that her tardiness had been noted. As she rounded the corner toward the locker room, she literally ran into Warrick Brown, who looked both worried and annoyed.

His incongruously light green eyes swept over her as he steadied her with a hand on her arm. "Whoa," he said in surprise. "What happened to you?"

"Flat tire," she spat. "The auto club couldn't get a truck to me in less than an hour and a half, and there wasn't a single chivalrous passerby in sight. So I changed it myself." She flipped a flyaway strand of red-blond hair from her eyes and asked, "So, how pissed is Grissom that I'm late?"

Warrick blew out a long breath. "Well, seeing as how he's late, too…"

Catherine drew back and gave him a disbelieving look. "Grissom? Late?" she asked. "What is this? Mess with Catherine's Mind Day?"

"No. It's weird. Judy said he and Nick checked out at the same time – a little after nine this morning. She said Nick was ragging on him about expecting more than an Egg McMuffin for breakfast."

"So…did you ask Nick if he knows why Grissom might be late?" From the look on Warrick's face, Catherine suspected she knew the answer to that question.

"Nick hasn't made it in either. And neither one of them is answering either home or cell phones."

Catherine now understood the worry furrows creasing her colleague's forehead. She felt their twins forming on her own. "I think we have our first case of the night," she said grimly. "Missing person, times two."

Sara Sidle leaned around the doorframe of Gil Grissom's office. "Still no answer on either phone," she reported to Catherine, who was seated behind Grissom's desk and methodically examining the collection of files arranged on top. "Grissom's and Nick's personal vehicles are still in the parking lot, but the department Tahoe checked out to Grissom is missing. I called dispatch and asked for an APB on it."

"Good." Catherine looked up. "What do you remember about the Mahler case?"

"Burton Mahler," Sara said promptly. "Died last night from a drug overdose. Grissom and I took the call."

Catherine waved one of the folders. "Your OD was related to one of the men convicted in the SunWays armored car robbery that went down last March. From the notes Grissom made, he was interested in an old mine Burton owned."

Sara stepped farther into the room, coming to stand in front of the desk with her arms crossed and her head tilted to one side. "As I recall, they never recovered the money from the heist. I wonder if Grissom thought maybe it was hidden in the brother's mine?"

"Could be. But Grissom wouldn't have gone to check it out without backup…" She flipped through the stack of files and opened a different folder. "The report on the robbery lists Dan Stevens as the lead detective on the case." She made a face as she reached for the phone and dialed the Robbery Division extension. Stevens wasn't well liked among the crime lab staff; he was a little too free with his low opinion of "geeks with guns" for anyone's liking. After a brief conversation, during which her expression clouded even more, she slowly replaced the phone in its cradle and looked up at Sara. "About nine o'clock this morning, Stevens asked for the rest of the day off to take care of some urgent personal business. His lieutenant tried to contact him late this afternoon to make sure everything was all right, but hasn't been able to contact him."

Sara's lips parted in stunned apprehension. She stared at Catherine for a long moment before she said, "I think we need to have a look at that mine."

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**Mining for the Truth**

**_Wednesday Morning_**

_Two brief taps on his open door drew Gil Grissom's attention away from the files spread over his desk. He looked up, a little surprised, as Nick Stokes crossed the crowded space to present him with a quarter-inch-thick folder. Their shift had officially ended almost an hour before, and their case load for once did not require working extra hours. _

_"Final report on the Tucker shooting," Nick announced. "There's nothing unexpected, and the evidence supports the witnesses' initial statements that it was self-defense." _

_Grissom accepted the file and glanced through the pages briefly. As he expected, everything was in order, the conclusions concise and well-documented. Without looking away from the folder he asked, "Is Sara still around?"_

_"She and Warrick are on their way to court. They're testifying in the Reeves murder trial today." Nick leaned slightly forward over the edge of the desk and frowned in curiosity at the open files. "Those are from that armored car heist last spring, aren't they?"_

_Grissom nodded. "Three of the four suspects were arrested and convicted. The fourth man got away, and none of the money was ever recovered. Over two million dollars seemed to vanish into thin air."_

_Nick flashed his amiable grin. "How many times have you told us things don't just vanish into thin air?" _

_"And they don't," Grissom agreed. "Which means the money has to be hidden somewhere." He reached to one side for another folder and turned it so Nick could see the contents. It was from a drug overdose death that had been called in not long after the start of the previous night's shift. "Burton Mahler," Grissom said, "now deceased brother of Benton Mahler, one of the men convicted for the heist."_

_Nick nodded slowly and picked up the file to take a closer look. "You and Sara worked this one," he noted. _

_Again Grissom agreed. "At the time we didn't realize the connection between our DB and the armored car case. In light of it, however, some papers we found at Mr. Mahler's apartment may have taken on a new significance." He paused a beat before explaining, "It seems that Burton Mahler owned an abandoned silver mine at Harper Ridge. He won it in a poker game about six months before the armored car robbery."_

_Nick's eyebrows lifted in eager speculation. "Great place to hide something."_

_Grissom sat back in his chair and studied the younger man for a moment. "Since Sara is otherwise occupied, how would you like to join me on a morning road trip?" he asked. "I'll even spring for breakfast on the way."_

_Harper Ridge was more than an hour from the city of Las Vegas. Grissom had declined Nick's offer to drive and now followed a lightly traveled secondary highway. Most of the time the interior of the Tahoe was silent except for the faint hum of the engine and the classical music issuing from the radio – Grissom's choice. The stream of casual chatter he had expected from Nick didn't materialize; he wondered if his traveling companion had nodded off to sleep, but a quick glance told him Nick was awake. The faint frown creasing the boyish features behind dark sunglasses signaled an active mind. _

_As if sensing that he was being watched, Nick shifted slightly in the passenger seat and looked over at Grissom. "You know, I wasn't really involved in that armored car investigation," he said reflectively. "The investigation had barely gotten started when you pulled Warrick and me off to work a gang shooting. Any chance the brother could have been the fourth man on the heist?" _

_Grissom shook his head without looking away from the road stretching out ahead of them. "No. Burton was in a court-ordered in-patient rehab program at the time."_

_"You'd think if he knew where the money was hidden, he'd have tapped into it by now to support his habit."_

_"He may not have known where Benton hid it," Grissom pointed out with a faint shrug. "From all reports, the brothers weren't all that close. Benton considered Burton untrustworthy because of his addiction. It's doubtful he would have confided that kind of information to him."_

_Nick was quiet for a moment, his head turned away as he peered out the side window. "So why didn't anyone come across this mine as a possible hiding place before?" he asked, his voice reflecting annoyance that their unit, highly regarded for their record of success, might have overlooked something important._

_At that, Grissom spared another glance in Nick's direction. His mouth quirked upward in a one-sided, wry smile. "Because, Nicky, we are after all only human."_

_"You mean we screwed up."_

_Grissom tilted his head in a gesture that was neither confirmation nor dissent. "I mean we have our limitations. We gather and interpret the evidence. There was no evidence connecting Burton Mahler to the crime or the missing money, and clear evidence that he could not have been directly involved, so we looked elsewhere. It was not our failure that the fourth man was never identified or caught, or that the money was never found. The evidence simply wasn't there. _

_"We did all we could, Nick," he concluded philosophically. "Other cases came up. We had to move on."_

_Nick sighed but said nothing more. A few miles farther along they reached the cut- off leading to Burton Mahler's worthless piece of real estate, a dirt track that would have defeated a less sturdy vehicle. Grissom's grip on the wheel tightened as the Tahoe bucked and lurched over the deeply rutted surface. He had to keep his teeth tightly clenched or risk biting his own tongue, and Nick braced himself against the bouncing with one hand on the dashboard, the other on the edge of the seat._

_They finally reached their destination, and Grissom parked the Tahoe near the mine entrance. He saw no other vehicles, even though he had contacted Dan Stevens, the primary detective on the armored car case, to let him know about this possible new lead on the missing money. _

_"Looks like Stevens is taking his sweet time getting here," Nick observed as he stepped from the car and stretched the road kinks from his spine. "Word has it he's turned into a real slacker now that his retirement is in sight."_

_Grissom heard the disapproval in Nick's tone but felt disinclined to defend the detective's tardiness. He pulled his cell phone from his belt, but replaced it when the "no signal" indicator flashed. "I'll try the radio," he said, leaning across the driver's seat while Nick went to open the rear hatch. He had no better luck, getting only a crackle of static when he tried to contact the dispatcher back in Las Vegas. _

_He joined Nick, who had begun loading a few essentials into a backpack. Mines tended to cover a lot of ground, and Grissom could understand Nick's decision to travel light unless he knew lugging their heavy field kits was necessary. If they found anything of interest inside the mine, they could always come back for additional equipment. _

_"Radio reception is bad, too," Grissom reported as he picked up a camera and a hard hat equipped with a battery-powered lamp, the twin of the one Nick already wore._

_Nick eyed the boarded-over entrance to the mine. "So what do we do, boss? Procedure says we don't go in first, but…"_

_Grissom scanned the area around them, seeing no signs that another human being existed within miles. For all he knew, Stevens had received a call and was unable to reach them to advise them of his delay. "This far out, if anyone was in the vicinity, there would be a vehicle of some kind," he pointed out. He smiled his deceptively placid smile and said, "Let's go mining."_

_The mine had been abandoned for decades. Weathered boards with painted warning messages almost worn off by time and the elements barricaded the entrance. Narrow gaps between the 1-by-8 planks would have allowed passage of nothing larger than a jack rabbit. While Nick went back to the Tahoe for a pry bar to loosen the boards,_ _Grissom studied the ends of the planks where they were secured to sturdy support posts that outlined the opening. _

_"Some of these have been replaced fairly recently," he noted, pointing to the shiny silver nails and hammer dents that showed far less weathering than the face of the boards. He took several pictures of the barricade, with close-ups of both the original and newer nails, then stood back while Nick pried loose a few of the boards to create an opening large enough for them to squeeze through._

_Grissom entered first, the lamp on his hard hat augmented by his MagLite, which he directed down to the mine floor. Although the ground was more rock than dirt, he spotted what could have been a partial footprint. He glanced up at Nick, who had just cleared the narrow opening, and pointed to the ground. _

_"Mark that," he said. "It's doubtful we'll be able to get a decent cast, but we'll give it a try after we've checked out the rest of the shaft."_

_Nick crouched to place a yellow numbered marker and a measuring tool next to the spot so Grissom could photograph the shallow marks that appeared to be the heel and one edge of a shoe print. When he was done, he straightened and slowly turned so his helmet light played over the rock walls surrounding them. The mine shaft curved slightly to the left and lacked the uniform width and shape of a mine in use. Small breakdown areas partially blocked the path, and the shoring timbers looked as if they'd been in place since the beginning of time. Grissom noticed that the younger man's shoulders tensed and his weight rocked slightly forward like a runner poised to bolt. _

_"Uh…Grissom…" Nick kept his voice low as if unwilling to risk disturbing the delicate balance within the mine shaft. "I know our usual routine is to hug the walls, but in this case…"_

_"We'll go straight down the middle," Grissom agreed, having reached the same conclusion as Nick. _

_They moved slowly, MagLites directed downward, but saw nothing to indicate that anyone had been inside the mine within either of their lifetimes. Deep, parallel grooves in the rocky floor indicated that at one time the mine had been equipped with a track for ore carts to transport large quantities of rock from deep inside the shaft to the outside. _

_The sunlight filtering in from the mine entrance had long since faded to black when they reached the area where active mining had taken place. The shaft widened and showed uneven depth bands where tons of rock had been dug out in hopes of discovering precious ores. In several places they found artifacts from the mine's working days -- large wooden tool boxes whose metal bindings were only moderately rusted in the arid environment. They examined each one, but saw only dusty picks, sledge hammers, and other implements stowed in the boxes. _

_The amount of rubble underfoot also increased, and the two men had to move even more carefully to keep from stumbling on the uneven ground. In several places they encountered partial breakdowns where shoring had failed and allowed rock falls to cascade into the shaft. Both men found themselves showered from time to time with dust sifting down from ragged crevices near the overhead timbers and flinched when the coarse powder invaded the narrow spaces between collars and unprotected necks. _

_A particularly ominous clatter of small stones mixed with the cascading dust brought Nick to a dead stop half a pace behind Grissom. "I don't suppose this is a good time to mention that I'm a little claustrophobic."_

_Grissom turned in place and cast a searching glance back at Nick. In retrospect he realized that, given a choice, Nick chose to examine the more open aspects of a crime scene. But he had never refused to go wherever he was needed. "Is that true?" Grissom asked, his brows furrowing._

_Nick's mouth twisted in a wry half grin. "Uh…actually, it is." He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping as a flush of color, scarcely noticeable in the dim light, rose under his skin. He looked up again with a smile that seemed a little forced. "But, hey," he added, "it could be worse." And he moved on, passing Grissom almost defiantly to take the lead._

_A little farther along, Nick stopped again, so abruptly Grissom narrowly avoided colliding with him. But this time it was something on the ground reflecting back the beam of his flashlight that had caught his attention. Grissom brought his own light to bear on the spot as well, illuminating a dime that looked newly minted. Nick pulled another marker from his pack, and Grissom photographed the coin in place. When he was done, Nick quickly dusted the coin for fingerprints, finding none, and dropped it into an evidence envelope._

_"It's dated 2003," he said. "Someone has definitely been checking this place out." _

_The mine shaft branched before they found anything else of interest. Grissom stood a moment at the intersection, looking first one direction then the other, and finally turned down the left-hand tunnel, raising his MagLite to shoulder height. No track grooves marred the rocky footing, and he soon discovered why. He followed the path only a short distance before it ended in an enlarged chamber that appeared to have been consigned to use as a dumping ground. Piles of rock dotted the space littered with broken boxes and tools, a rotting leather water flagon, empty food tins -- and a crumpled body slumped against the far wall. _

_The corpse had been there quite some time, long enough to have shed the distinctive odor of death and decomposition. The skin, dried and darkened like leather, had shrunk over the bones. Longish, grey-flecked black hair clung stubbornly to the scalp, and a plain leather-banded watch drooped over one withered wrist. A large, irregular brown-black patch on the front of the faded sport shirt indicated that the man had not died of natural causes. Shot or stabbed, he had certainly met a violent end._

_"We'll need our full kits," Grissom said, his voice oddly flat in the dense silence. "We now have an apparent crime scene."_


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** Oops. Forgot to include this in the first two chapters. The characters do not belong to me. I'm only borrowing them for a little madness and mayhem.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Many thanks for the wonderful reviews. The ego strokes are great, but please be sure to offer constructive criticism as well. I have my blind spots, and only a neutral party can help me see past them.

Now, on with the story!

**Chapter Three**

**Chilling Discovery**

**Wednesday/Thursday, After Midnight**

"Highway Patrol chopper spotted the Tahoe and another car up on Harper Ridge," Warrick reported when they gathered in the break room. "They didn't see any sign of movement, though. Grissom and Nick – and maybe Stevens – are probably somewhere inside the mine. They're checking it out and they'll let us know what they find."

"I'm guessing they ran into some kind of trouble," Catherine said grimly. "Assuming they headed straight for the ridge this morning, they've been up there at least twelve hours. That's plenty of time to find out if anything's hidden inside." As ranking investigator, she had vetoed Sara's suggestion that they personally follow the one lead they had to the possible whereabouts of the two missing men. They still had their duties, and the state police helicopter could reach the area in far less time than their ground vehicles. Until they knew something definite, it was business as usual.

She had already ruined Sara's night by sending her to the scene of a convenience store robbery to collect evidence. Her own had taken an even sharper dive down the crapper when she admitted the distasteful necessity of calling Conrad Ecklie to request that personnel from the day shift be called back in to help cover for Grissom and Nick. A departmental chopper was put on standby for them in the event that Harper Ridge turned out to be a crime scene.

Catherine tossed back the last of the coffee in the mug she'd already filled three times. "I'm going to change clothes," she told Warrick, "in case we're needed at the mine. Come get me if you hear anything."

Warrick watched her walk away toward the locker room. Her slim back radiated the same tension he felt in every inch of his tall frame. Though he remained calm, concentrating on the essentials of locating the two missing men, every nerve screamed at him to do something _now_. Mines – especially old, abandoned mines – were dangerous places. The possibility that the state troopers would find Grissom and Nick injured or dead somewhere deep inside that god-forsaken ridge kept intruding on his thoughts. He dropped into a chair and leaned his elbows on the table, hands covering his face as if he could barricade his mind from the unwanted scenarios.

Catherine returned, her slacks and tailored shirt replaced by jeans, a pullover sweater, and sturdy hiking boots. "Curtis and Ecklie just got here," she said. "Ecklie's taking over the shift, and another of his guys is on the way to assist Sara at the convenience store."

"Good." Warrick clasped his hands together in front of him. "No word yet from the troopers. It may take them a while to check out that mine."

"We know the guys are in trouble," Catherine said. "Otherwise they would have been back, or at least contacted someone by now."

Warrick knew where her thoughts were leading. "Sara will kill us if we take off before she gets back."

Catherine's full lips twisted in a wry smile. "Yeah."

She and Warrick both nearly jumped out of their skins when Warrick's cell phone warbled. He answered it after only one ring, and Catherine could tell by the shifting expression on his face that the news was not good. She sat forward, almost reaching across the table, and waited until he snapped the phone shut after a terse, "We'll be there as soon as we can."

Warrick met Catherine's imploring gaze with torment in his eyes. "Troopers found the mine shaft collapsed," he reported with a faint tremor in his voice. "They've called in Search and Rescue, but they were able to confirm one body in the rubble. No ID yet. It's mostly buried, and they're afraid of setting off another collapse if they try to dig without expert help."

Catherine sagged back in her chair as if she'd been punched in the stomach. She couldn't stop the flood of nightmare images invading her brain, images of two men she had known and worked beside for years, crushed and mangled. A trembling hand covered her mouth, and her eyes closed as if the lack of sight could protect her from that horrible reality.

"Call Sara and have her meet us at the helipad," she said roughly. "I'll tell Ecklie we're leaving."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Flight time to Harper Ridge was roughly twenty-five minutes, but to the three passengers in the LVPD chopper it seemed twenty-five hours. Even though they wore headsets that made conversation possible within the noisy confines, none spoke more than a few words. As the chopper banked steeply around the jutting silhouette of Harper Ridge, they saw flashing lights below signaling that Search and Rescue had made it to the scene. Dark shapes moved near the trucks, gearing up to begin their grim work inside.

The pilot brought the chopper to rest far enough away from the center of activity to avoid showering the searchers with dust and gravel from the rotor wash, idling but not shutting down his engine. The three CSIs climbed from the chopper and ran toward the lead rescue vehicle. They introduced themselves to Hal Walcott, team leader, and announced that they would accompany the rescue team. For a moment he seemed ready to deny them entry to the mine, but merely nodded and motioned for them to follow.

Catherine noticed the yellow marker just inside the mine entrance and pointed it out to Walcott. "If you see any more markers like that one," she cautioned, "try not to disturb them or the immediate vicinity. Our guys wouldn't have left it without a reason."

Walcott nodded as he led his team of six, plus the three criminalists, along the shaft. Each of his men carried digging tools and supplies. They moved at a steady but cautious pace, knowing from the state troopers that the collapse was located almost three-quarters of a mile inside. At times they had to travel single-file where the shaft was narrowed by partial collapses. "Be careful," Walcott said as he inspected a timber that had cracked diagonally and seemed on the verge of giving out. "We don't want to get ourselves trapped in here, too."

Catherine sucked in a breath when she saw the extent of the tunnel collapse. "Oh, my god," she said slowly, fanning her light over the floor-to-ceiling pile of stone and splintered timber. She stopped, transfixed, when her heavy-duty flashlight illuminated patches of torn grey cloth and a bloody, mangled arm among the tumbled rock. Her heart banged painfully inside her chest; the jacket looked a lot like one she had seen Grissom wear on many occasions and that he had, in fact, been wearing the last time she'd seen him.

Warrick and Sara came to a halt, one on either side, close enough that Catherine could feel the warmth from their bodies. Sara uttered a wordless, shocked sound, and Warrick breathed an anguished "damn." They remained unmoving until Walcott gave the order to begin clearing the rubble and free the body.

They had to work slowly and methodically to avoid any new falls. Pairs of rescuers used picks and pry bars to loosen sections of the stone, which the others then carefully lifted and moved out of the way. It took almost half an hour, but they finally managed to free the twisted body. The CSIs were accustomed to gruesome sights and bodies that scarcely looked human. This was worse, because all three feared that they would recognize the face of a friend beneath the blood and shattered bones.

As soon as Catherine photographed the body where it now lay exposed on its rocky bed, Warrick rolled it over to reveal a face flattened on one side where cheekbone and jaw had been pulverized by the weight of the rocks. Blood soaked and made indistinguishable the color of the short hair covering a skull split like a melon just above where the left ear should have been but wasn't. The short, harsh sound that emerged from Warrick's throat was both horrified and relieved. "It's Stevens," he reported.

With help from two of Walcott's men, Warrick lifted the broken body and carried it a short distance away from the rock pile. They laid it out carefully, and one of the rescue men unfolded a tarp to cover the body, masking the grisly sight until it could be removed and taken to the morgue. As he bent to straighten the oiled cloth, he paused and looked more closely.

"Hey, guys," he called to the others. "He's got something stuffed in his pockets."

Warrick crouched beside the body and reached into the man's right-hand jacket pocket. His features tightened as he withdrew a holstered weapon. Stevens' own holster still hung from his belt, empty. Why would he have a second gun hidden in his jacket?

He handed the gun over his shoulder to Catherine, then checked the bulge on the other side, finding yet another weapon, also still in its leather holster. "What the hell…?"

"This is Grissom's," Catherine said in confusion, turning the now open flap so the others could see the initials stamped into the underside of the leather.

Warrick checked the one he held. "Nick's."

Catherine stared down at the lifeless lump of Dan Stevens' body, her eyes wide and more than a little frightened. Of no one in particular she asked in a whisper, "What the hell went on here?"

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: **The characters do not belong to me. I'm only borrowing them for a little madness andmayhem.

**Chapter Four**

**Trapped by Treachery**

_**Wednesday, Early Afternoon**_

_Two hours after entering the mine, Grissom and Nick stepped back out into the blinding sunlight. After so long in darkness relieved only by their helmet lamps and flashlights, both men grimaced and shielded their eyes until they could fumble their sunglasses into place. Grissom went to the Tahoe and opened the back hatch to retrieve the larger field kit. He set the camera down and opened his preferred briefcase-style case to be sure it held everything he would need. _

_"Looks like Stevens finally made it," Nick said, pointing to the sedan parked beyond their Tahoe and near the dilapidated structure where ore from the mine had once been processed. The car's presence had been hidden by the SUV's larger profile until he stepped toward the far side of the rear end. The sedan's trunk lid gaped half open, but they saw no sign of the detective. _

_"Guess he decided to check out the building," Nick surmised, moving away from the Tahoe for a closer look. He opened his mouth to call out and alert the detective to their presence just as Stevens emerged from the structure carrying a heavy canvas money bag in each hand. "Hey, man, what are you doing?" Nick demanded, lengthening his stride to close the distance between him and Stevens. "Don't you know better than to move stuff before we process the scene?"_

_Grissom left his equipment in the truck and moved quickly to catch up with Nick. He saw the flash of anger on Stevens' face and suspected that a verbal confrontation could quickly escalate. "Nick, back off," he commanded in a low voice, reaching up to place a cautioning hand on the younger man's shoulder. _

_Nick turned his attention to Grissom for a moment, and that was all Stevens needed to drop one of the bags and draw his gun. The two CSIs suddenly found themselves staring into a danger that neither had anticipated._

_"Your weapons," Stevens said, gesturing to each man in turn. "Take 'em off – holster and all – and drop 'em on the ground." _

_Grissom gave Nick a small nod as he slowly retracted his hand and reached with exquisite caution to remove the seldom-used weapon from his belt. He knew Nick was looking to him for some sort of guidance, some reassurance that they could find a way out of this predicament, but at the moment he could do nothing except will them both to remain calm._

_As Grissom bent to deposit his gun on the ground, he tilted his head to one side and stared up at Stevens. "You knew exactly where the money was," he mused. His voice was steady, very little different than if he'd been describing a piece of evidence. The only outward sign that his composure was less than complete was a slight narrowing of his eyes and a miniscule tic at the corner of his mouth. _

_"Yeah," Stevens agreed curtly. He took a couple of short, harsh breaths, and barked a laugh that held no humor. "I had it all planned out. In a couple of months when I have my thirty years, I'd retire, get a new start somewhere away from my ex, with my pension – and a nice little nest-egg." He thrust the gun forward a few inches to punctuate his words. "And you two had to go and screw it all up! If you'd just stayed inside the mine another five fucking minutes…!"_

_Grissom straightened slowly, careful to make no move that Stevens might misinterpret. Beside him Nick seemed frozen in place, jaw clenched, lips thinned to an almost invisible line. The finely chiseled nostrils flared with each rapid breath, and a pulse beat visibly in his neck. _

_"I'm waiting," Stevens said impatiently, raising his gun a few inches and taking a half step forward._

_Nick had made no move to surrender his own weapon; in fact, there was something almost defiant about the rigid set of his shoulders. That scared Grissom as much as Stevens did. Twice before Nick had been backed into a figurative corner by a lunatic wielding a gun, and Grissom knew that both times he felt his response had lacked courage. Now was not the time for any ill-conceived heroics born of Nick's need to prove himself._

_"It's all right, Nick." Grissom tried to infuse both warning and encouragement into his voice. "Do as he says."_

_"Better listen to your boss, Nicky-boy," Stevens said derisively. "You don't have the balls to take me on." He gestured again, and waited until Nick removed his weapon and crouched to lay it carefully on the ground. "You're a coward," he taunted. "The whole damned department knows it. I don't know why Grissom keeps you around. Every time you get yourself in a tight spot, somebody else has to come along and bail your ass out."_

_The muscle in Nick's jaw twitched and his lips compressed even more, but he did not look away from the scorn in Stevens' gaze. A deep wash of color stained his cheeks, but Grissom wasn't sure if it was anger or shame – or both._

_Stevens' sneer became even nastier. "What? No denial? No attempt to excuse yourself?" he went on, his attention shifting from one man to the other. "What about you, Grissom? Aren't you going to speak up for your boy?"_

_Grissom answered with a brief shake of his head. "Nothing I say will change your opinion," he said matter-of-factly. "Nick knows his value to the unit, and so do I. I think you're trying to goad one or both of us into some action that will make it easier for you to kill us. I'm not going to do that. Neither is Nick." He hoped the younger man would hear and obey the implicit command. _

_Stevens made another impatient gesture. "Enough," he said finally. "Take three steps back, then get on your knees, hands behind your heads. I'll deal with you soon enough." _

_They had no choice but comply, which both men did with noticeable lack of enthusiasm. The rocky ground made kneeling a painful exercise, and the position made sudden moves impossible – which, Grissom knew, was exactly what the detective intended. _

_Stevens picked up and pocketed the forfeited weapons before he quickly loaded the remaining bags into the trunk of his car, exchanging their bulk for a flashlight and a small canvas knapsack before he slammed the lid closed. The entire time his gun never wavered from the two men in front of him, and when he had finished stashing the stolen money he ordered his captives onto their feet and back into the mine._

_Grissom exchanged a silent look with his companion as they stood and turned to retrace their steps back to the mine with Stevens keeping a safe distance behind them. At the boarded-up mine entrance, Grissom stepped through first, with Nick following. The younger man stumbled a bit as he eased between the rough planks, and Stevens reached out to give Nick a rough jab in the shoulder with his flashlight, careful to keep his gun hand out of range. _

_"Move it," Stevens ordered. "Back away, then stand still." _

_Grissom and Nick stood as ordered, shoulders almost touching. "What do we do now?" Nick asked in an urgent whisper, his gaze on Stevens as the detective followed and switched on his flashlight. The slight sound attracted their captor's attention, and Stevens barked a command to shut up._

_"We'll need our flashlights, too," Grissom said reasonably, "or our helmet lights."_

_"Flashlights only," Stevens said. "And keep them pointed down. Now, get moving. Grissom, you go first."_

_So much for any attempt to communicate with Nick to devise a way to neutralize Stevens, Grissom thought grimly as he moved deeper into the mine. He could only hope that Nick would be as vigilant as he himself intended to be for anything that could be turned to their advantage. "We found more of your handiwork farther back in the mine," Grissom said conversationally, raising his voice enough to carry back to Stevens. "Who was he? The fourth man from the armored car robbery?"_

_Stevens snorted a laugh. "What makes you think I had anything to do with what you found?" _

_"Because my belief in coincidence is limited," Grissom responded. _

_After a pause Stevens admitted that Grissom's supposition was correct. "He was stupid enough to think he could buy his way out jail if he cut me in for part of the take. Dumb bastard. As if I'd let him have that kind of a hold over me! As soon as he showed me where the money was hidden, I killed him."_

_"And now you're planning to dump us there, too," Grissom concluded. "You know, Stevens, there are people back in Las Vegas who know where we are. You won't be able to keep our bodies hidden very long. And if you're planning to shoot us…"_

_"Shut up!" Stevens ordered roughly. "I know what you're trying to do. And I've already decided how you're going to die. There won't be any way to trace it back to me."_

_"Every murderer leaves a trail," Grissom countered. "It's just a matter of time before someone uncovers it."_

_Stevens' answering laugh held deep contempt. "Look around you," he said, "at these timbers shoring up the shaft. They're so old and rotten, it wouldn't take much to bring this place down. It's a damn shame that it just happened to come down with the two of you inside it."_

_For the first time, Grissom felt a small flash of hope. He was fairly sure Stevens hadn't really thought out exactly what he planned to do. If he was making it up as he went along, he likely would make a mistake. It would be up to him and Nick to be ready and willing to act when that occurred._

_Grissom turned suddenly when he heard ragged, scuffling noises and a thump behind him as Nick's flashlight went skidding past his left foot. He saw Nick on the ground, rolling quickly to sit up facing Stevens. The beam from the detective's light hit Nick full in the face, causing him to squint against the blinding brightness and bring up a dusty hand to shield his eyes. _

_"Nick, are you all right?" Grissom asked. He didn't know exactly what had happened, but judging by the anger imprinted on the younger man's face, he suspected that it hadn't been purely accidental._

_"Yeah," Nick replied slowly. "I'm fine. Just stumbled a little, and our friend here decided it would be fun to watch me eat dirt." _

_"A coward and clumsy," the detective spat. "You got a real prince here, Grissom."_

_Grissom bent to lend Nick a hand getting back to his feet, then retrieved the dropped flashlight while Nick brushed dust from his hands and straightened his jacket and the set of the backpack straps on his shoulders. The two exchanged a long look as Grisssom handed back the light. Grissom had the distinct impression that Nick was trying to communicate something to him, but for the life of him he couldn't decipher the silent message. He was still considering the possibilities when Stevens ordered them to keep moving._

_They once again neared the point where the tunnel branched toward the dump chamber where Stevens had hidden his first victim, and Grissom's earlier hope that they might yet survive Stevens' plotting faded. Even if they weren't crushed under falling rock, being trapped in that confined space would almost certainly spell their end. They would run out of air long before a search party could locate and free them._

_Grissom tilted his head slightly as the sound he had been hearing for the last few seconds suddenly became clearer. Nick was humming, not quite under his breath, but so softly that it was difficult to distinguish the tune. Grissom slowed to close the distance between them, and finally recognized the song and the lyrics belonging to the line Nick repeated over and over. 'Get ready, 'cause here I come…Get ready, 'cause here I come…' And that silent, urgent look suddenly gained clarity and meaning. Nick had taken the flashlight with both hands, the left supporting the long cylinder from below, the right curling over it from above. And the cuff of his right sleeve had fit too tightly over his wrist, as if something was stuffed inside it. _

_Nick stopped humming and whispered, "Now." _

_Grissom turned quickly, raising his flashlight to shine directly into Stevens' face as Nick pivoted on one foot, bringing his right arm up and around in a smooth arc to launch the baseball-sized rock he'd managed to palm earlier. A major league pitcher couldn't have put more power into the move. _

_"Son of a bitch!" Stevens roared, flinching from the light a split second before the unexpected missile slammed into his chest just below the base of his throat. The impact rocked him back two steps, his mouth dropping open as he gasped for breath. His right hand tightened reflexively and his gun discharged, deafeningly loud in the confined space. _

_Grissom saw and heard Nick fall back, a pained cry escaping his throat. At that moment, the rational scientist vanished in a rush of primal survival instinct; he dropped his light and charged forward to tackle Stevens. _

_He had the initial advantage of surprise, which gave him a momentary edge over the larger, more physically aggressive detective. His first priority was to take the gun out of the equation. Stevens' training in self-defense would be difficult enough to overcome. He wrapped both hands around Stevens' wrist to force him to drop the gun. The move brought him within range of the detective's other fist, and he forced his shoulder up into the man's armpit to make it more difficult for him to get in an effective punch. Stevens stubbornly kept his grip on the automatic despite the pressure Grissom exerted on the bones and tendons of his wrist. It seemed that the battle for possession of the gun went on forever in a weird, disjointed dance that carried the combatants back down the mine shaft, bouncing from wall to wall like an ungainly pinball. The gun discharged again and again, kicking dust and stone from floor, walls, and ceiling, and filling the air with the acrid stench of burnt gunpowder. _

_Stevens' fist connected sharply with Grissom's jaw, and the CSI's grip loosened. He found himself spun around and slammed with bruising force into the corner of a shoring timber. The groan of overstressed wood and a cascade of dirt raining down alerted him to the immediate peril of the very thing Stevens had wanted. He summoned every ounce of his strength to shove Stevens back as he released his weakening hold and scrambled back toward the spot where Nick was struggling to rise. An ominous crack raised the hair on the back of Grissom's neck, and he ducked his head like a startled tortoise just as the first larger stones began to fall. He half expected Stevens to shoot him in the back, but a quick glance revealed the detective too busy trying to save himself from the rapidly increasing rock fall to worry about his intended victims. _

_Grissom was within three strides of his fallen companion when something crashed into him from behind and he went down hard. His breath exploded from his lungs, and he had only a momentary glimpse of Nick's pained and terrified expression before a stone clipped his head and he spiraled down into darkness. _

_To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Acknowledgement:** Many thanks to Maekala for beta reading this story. Without her you'd have to put up with some pretty ghastly typos!

**Author's Notes:** (1) The reviews continue to be a source of inspiration and lots of warm fuzzies. I appreciate each and every one. (2) I will continue to post as quickly as possible, but expect a brief lapse around Christmas. I will be out of town for a few days and concentrating on family activities.

**Chapter Five**

**Chasing the Evidence**

**Thursday, Wee Hours of the Morning**

Catherine herded her small team outside the mine, careful to stay out of the way of the rescue workers who still ferried equipment inside where Walcott had his crew working to clear the shaft. She knew the worry she read in Sara's and Warrick's faces was mirrored in her own.

"All right," she said as she turned to face her colleagues. "We know something weird went down here. Let's do what we're trained to do."

"Chase the evidence," Warrick concluded.

Catherine nodded. "Warrick, check out the Tahoe. See if our guys left anything behind that might indicate what kind of trouble they ran into. Also, see what's missing. If they're not…if they survived the tunnel collapse, I'd like to know what resources they might have at their disposal." She switched her focus to Sara. "Sara, see if there's anything interesting in Stevens' car."

Sara nodded. "And you'll be…where?"

"On the radio," Catherine replied with a wave toward the state trooper car that had arrived on the scene while they were inside. "We're too far out for the cells to work, and I'll have to use a relay through the state police dispatch office to reach LVPD. Our local frequency was never intended to cover this range."

She made the necessary calls, requesting transport for Stevens' body and bringing Ecklie up to date on what they had and had not found. The day-shift supervisor seemed more concerned than she would have expected over their failure to locate the missing men, and she found that marginally comforting. He had offered to dispatch additional personnel to assist, but Catherine declined. "Right now it's Search and Rescue's show," she told him. "Until and unless they come across something that warrants investigation, there's not much we can do except check out the vehicles and see if we can start piecing together exactly what might have happened up here."

"The coroner's crew should be there any time," Ecklie said, "The request for recovery went in as soon as the state troopers confirmed a fatality. When it gets there one of you will need to come back in with the body. It's turning into a busy night, and I can't spare anyone to observe the autopsy. That's assuming Robbins will be able to get to it immediately. He's already got two on the slab."

Catherine exhaled a long sigh. None of them would want to leave the scene until they knew the fate of their friends, but she recognized that their personal preferences couldn't take precedence. She ended the conversation and looked up to see Warrick coming toward her from the Tahoe. In his hands he held one of the flash-equipped 35mm cameras they used to document crime scenes.

"Well, whatever happened took them by surprise," Warrick reported. "The Tahoe wasn't locked, and I found Grissom's kit open. This camera was beside it. It looks like they found something of interest. The film counter shows more than half a roll used."

"Which means they took pictures of something here," Catherine said. "Neither one would start out with a partial roll."

Warrick nodded agreement. "They probably have some supplies," he added, trying to sound positive. "The skeleton field kit is missing, along with a small first-aid kit, and at least one bottle of water. Two of the hard hats with battery lamps are gone, too."

"That's good," Catherine said. "Any sign of disturbance in the Tahoe?"

Warrick shook his head. "Nah. It's clean."

Both Warrick and Catherine looked around when Sara hailed them from her position at the rear of Stevens' sedan.

"You gotta see this," Sara called with grim satisfaction, pointing toward the now open trunk. "I know why everything went to hell in a handcart."

They quickly crossed the distance to join Sara and followed the line of her extended arm. Warrick let out a long, low whistle, and Catherine said simply, "Wow." Inside the trunk were ten canvas satchels bearing the SunWays Armored Transport logo. She stared at the bags, all with their security locks still intact, two with dark, rusty looking smudges, and propped her hands on her hips. "I'll be damned. I'll bet the bastard planned to keep the money, and our guys were an unexpected complication."

Sara's narrow face contorted in a deep frown. "Do you think Grissom and Nick are already dead? Stevens could have dumped their bodies in the mine, then got trapped by the cave-in on his way out."

"I don't know," Catherine said bleakly. "But my guess is that they were alive when they went in. Stevens wouldn't want to have to carry them inside to dispose of them." She squared her shoulders and faced the younger woman. "Let's not jump to conclusions," she said resolutely. "Until we see evidence to the contrary, we're going to work on the assumption that they're still alive."

xxxxxxxxxx

Sara stared out the side window at the dark landscape beyond the reach of the headlights, satisfied for once to let someone else drive. Catherine had decided that they would take Grissom's Tahoe, with the locked money bags loaded inside, back to Las Vegas, trailing the coroner's van transporting Dan Stevens' body. Sara had argued that only one of them needed to go back to the lab, but Catherine pulled rank and overruled her request to stay, citing the Search and Rescue team leader's insistence on minimizing the number of personnel other than his teams to a minimum. Warrick, she decided, could handle anything they turned up that appeared to be evidence of what had taken place in the mine.

Now, as the Tahoe sped down the highway, Sara rested her jutting chin on her hand and fought to suppress the emotions that churned inside her. She was glad Catherine seemed content to let the silence spin out indefinitely; her carefully manufactured composure probably would have shattered like glass if Catherine had tried to offer half-assed platitudes and forced optimism. She may have given up hope that Grissom would ever see her as anything but a friend and colleague, but she was not ready for him to disappear completely from her life. At least not like this.

As for Nick…After nearly four years of working together, Sara felt an odd sort of kinship with him. They were both, in their separate and distinct ways, survivors of the "Grissom wars." In much the same way Sara had been forced to accept the reality that Grissom would never love her as she did him, so Nick seemed to have finally abandoned the quest for Grissom's recognition and respect. She had found his earlier efforts to become the night shift's favored son both pathetic and sad. They still had their inevitable clashes, but she had, on occasion, glimpsed unexpectedly turbulent depths beneath his smiling façade. Losing him would be a little like losing a brother.

"Sara!" The urgency in Catherine's voice indicated that she had tried more than once to elicit a response. Sara dropped her hand and tuned back in to her surroundings to discover that they had returned to the brilliant, multicolored environs of Las Vegas some time ago while her thoughts were otherwise occupied.

"What did you say?"

"I said, get on the phone and call Greg," Catherine said with forced patience. "Have him get a couple of techs to meet us with a freight cart so we can get these money bags inside. As soon as we unload, I want you to oversee getting the money counted and inventoried into evidence. And check the prints you pulled. Greg can work the blood on the bags, see if he can get any useful DNA."

Sara shoved aside her gloomy thoughts and pulled out her phone to make the call. Ten minutes later, when Catherine pulled up near the rear entrance to the lab, Greg himself met them with another technician and the requested transport. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his lab coat and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if standing still was quite beyond his ability. His spiky hair stood up even more riotously than usual, and Catherine could easily envision him repeatedly running both hands through it in agitation. His ready grin was nowhere to be found as he quickly began unloading their cargo.

"I'm going to drop off the film from Grissom's camera on my way to the morgue," Catherine announced. "Maybe we'll get an idea of what they found up there."

Sara nodded, drawing herself up straighter and gathered up the meager collection of evidence before falling into step behind the cart on which two million temptations rode.

"So…no sign of them yet?" Greg asked, almost reluctantly.

"Not as of when we left," Sara confirmed. "Warrick's still at the scene, though. He'll relay any new developments to us through the state police."

Greg's thick brows drew together, and he remained uncharacteristically quiet while they transferred the money bags to a large table in one of the layout rooms and started the crew of officers called in for this purpose on the time-consuming task of counting and logging the stolen money. As soon as that process was underway, Sara left him to process the blood traces on the canvas satchels while she retreated to the print lab to feed the fingerprints into the scanner to match against the various online databases.

She had identified several – all of them belonging to Dan Stevens – and was waiting for confirmation of her suspicion that his would be the only prints recovered when Greg came in and pulled one of the vacant lab stools up next to hers and sat down. "Anything?" she asked without much hope. His glum expression told the tale.

"I can't do anything with the blood," he replied. "It's old, and so dry there are no viable factors to work with. What about those prints?"

"Stevens was the last person to handle the bags. All the identifiable prints are his." Sara propped her elbows on the edge of the work surface and dropped her head into her hands. After a moment she felt Greg's hand rest lightly on her shoulder, rubbing a small circle of comfort.

"So…how bad was it out there?" he asked, his voice low and thick with worry.

Sara turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. "Bad," she conceded. "When we first saw the body…" She broke off long enough to swallow the egg-sized lump in her throat. "All I could see was an arm. He was wearing this jacket – this torn, bloody, grey jacket. It looked like that hideous fifties-reject thing Grissom wears." Sara had to swallow again and press her lips briefly into a flat, thin line to still the trembling of her chin. "I thought…I thought it was him…Grissom…buried under all that rock. Even after they uncovered him – he was face-down – it wasn't until Warrick turned him over and I saw his face…" Greg had somehow scooted the stool closer and now encircled her shoulders with one arm and rubbed his other hand up and down her forearm. "His face was all smashed in on one side, and I kept seeing…I kept seeing Grissom like that." Her voice cracked with emotion, and she squeezed her eyes shut to block the phantom images forming in her brain.

Greg turned and gently tugged her forward until her head rested against his shoulder. Sara gave in to the comfort he offered, and released the rigid control she had maintained for hours. She didn't sob, but her body shook with tremors and her eyes felt scalded with the heat of the tears that spilled down her face. Greg's hands moved gently over her back, and his cheek pressed against the top of her head. She felt the vibration as he swallowed rapidly – probably choking back emotions of his own.

"You can't give up on him," Greg said finally. "On either of them. Just because Stevens didn't make it doesn't mean Grissom and Nick won't."

Sara nodded slowly, wanting to believe but scarcely daring. She drew in a long breath and sat up, pushing herself away from Greg but letting her hands rest on his arms. "I don't want them to be gone," she avowed, finally breaking contact with Greg to wipe her face with shaking hands. "But you weren't there. You didn't see…" She broke off and clamped her mouth shut as the tears threatened again.

Greg opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and looked past Sara when Catherine appeared in the doorway and called to him. Sara turned as well, uncomfortable to have the other woman see that she had been crying.

"Greg, I've got some samples for you to run," she said briskly with only a brief, sympathetic glance at Sara.

"Is Robbins done with the prelim already?" Sara asked, gathering the ragged shreds of her professional demeanor and wrapping them around herself like a favorite, familiar blanket.

Catherine nodded. "He won't be able to pinpoint exact cause of death. Any one of a dozen injuries could have been fatal. He confirmed the initial TOD estimate of somewhere between one and three yesterday afternoon."

"What kind of trace did you recover?" Greg asked as he moved closer to Catherine, ready to take possession of whatever she had for him.

"Skin and blood from under his fingernails, a couple of hairs that look like Grissom's caught on a shirt button." Catherine paused, her forehead wrinkling a bit, before she went on. "Since his weapon was missing, I tested his hands and his clothing for GSR. It was positive."

Sara stared in shock at Catherine. "Oh, my god," she breathed. "He shot them? The bastard shot them?" Her voice rose in fury and fear.

Catherine put out a hand in an abortive gesture. "We don't know that for sure," she countered, although her own expression suggested that her belief was only superficial. "He could have shot at a rattlesnake. Or the gun could have discharged during a struggle. We just don't know!"

Sara spun away, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. Her other arm folded across her midsection as her stomach lurched. She felt as if she were trapped on one of Grissom's damned roller coasters traveling at light speed, and her own chaotic thoughts made her dizzy.

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**From Bad to Worse**

**_Wednesday, Late Afternoon_**

_"Come on, Grissom. Open your eyes, man. Please. You can't do this to me. You can't die on me here."_

_The words reached Grissom's awareness from what seemed a thousand miles away and reminded him why he had taken refuge in this dark, silent corner of oblivion in the first place. He hurt. Everywhere. His entire body felt squashed and mangled, and his head throbbed more intensely than the worst migraine he'd ever experienced. Sharp intrusions here and there highlighted individual pain loci too numerous to count. He seemed to be lying mostly on his left side, but couldn't be sure, because he could feel pressure from all around. His hearing was the only sense that seemed to be working normally, and he carefully catalogued the sounds: someone's rapid, ragged breathing; fabric rasping against fabric; sporadic thuds and cracks; a familiar voice, sounding strained and scared as it coaxed, cajoled, implored, even cursed. _

_Some of the crushing heaviness seemed to recede, taking small fragments of pain with it, and Grissom finally succeeding in peeling his eyelids apart. His vision blurred, and he blinked rapidly in an effort to clear the images. Everything remained smudged and indistinct, like a black-and-white print viewed through wax paper, and he closed his eyes again as a frustrated groan rise from within his chest to escape as a weak cough._

_"Grissom?" The voice, Nick's, sharpened and grew louder, closer. Grissom sensed movement nearby, felt chilly fingers press briefly against the side of his neck, and forced his eyes open in response. "Ah, thank God!" Nick said on a shaky sigh. "I wasn't sure you were still with me." Nick's hand moved from Grissom's neck to his arm, patting it in a calming gesture – though Grissom wasn't entirely sure for whom that reassurance was intended. The younger man turned away briefly to grab a couple of gauze pads from the first-aid kit he'd carried in his backpack – now open on the ground nearby – and wet them from the small plastic squirt bottle of distilled water used for irrigating wounds. He used the damp cloth to wipe Grissom's face and eyes, and some of the fog cleared from his vision. _

_Light from one of the helmet lamps cast everything into sharp relief, washing almost all color from what it directly touched, leaving all else in abyss-dark shadow. _

_Grissom frowned at the horror-house apparition hovering over him and couldn't help wondering if he was as much as mess as Nick. Dust, sweat, blood, and probably a few tears, transformed Nick's pale face into a Halloween fright mask. Blood still oozed dark and viscous from a jagged laceration running diagonally up his forehead and into his matted short hair. His upper lip was swollen and split, and the jagged edge of a chipped tooth showed beneath it. Nick held himself awkwardly, right arm pressed close to his body, and his belt was now wrapped around his left thigh to hold in place a stack of more gauze pads and a thick wad of cloth that appeared to have been torn from the bottom of his shirt. The leg of his jeans and the makeshift bandage shone black where blood had spread from the wound and soaked the heavy cloth. _

_"You look like hell," Grissom observed bluntly. _

_Nick's answering laugh carried a thread of hysteria. "Yeah. And you've got my vote for Mr. Las Vegas, too," he said shakily. His lips compressed to hold back a groan as he shifted away, still kneeling, and turned to the pile of stones still half covering Grissom's legs. "I'll get the rest of this crap off you."_

_Grissom watched the muscles in Nick's back flex as he carefully hoisted each irregular clump of stone and heaved it aside. He couldn't help but notice the soft, pained gasps that escaped when he had to use both arms to shift one of the larger rocks. As the last one rolled away, Nick's body seemed to sag in on itself, and Grissom turned onto his back so that the rocks beneath him weren't jabbing quite so insistently into his shoulder and aching ribs._

_He almost screamed when twin flares of pain erupted in his right leg and in his back. His choked exclamation ended on something suspiciously like a sob, and his eyes squeezed shut against tears of absolute agony. He lay completely flat, his hands clenched against the stone floor so rigidly that he could feel individual dust grains digging into his skin._

_"Don't move…don't move!" Nick's hand rested lightly but insistently on Grissom's right knee and slowly moved downward in a series of careful probing touches. He hissed faintly between his teeth, and removed his hand. "Oh, man, this is not good."_

_Grissom forced his eyes open and found Nick frowning at him with grim worry. "What?" He was shocked at the unsteadiness of his own voice._

_"Your leg is broken," Nick told him. He looked around, eyes a bit wild, then scooted back within reach of his backpack. "Not much to use as a splint," he muttered, dumping the pack's contents before he opened his utility knife and began slicing through the padded straps, "but it's the best I can do."_

_Grissom bit his lip as Nick carefully folded the pack to curve around the back of his calf and used the straps to secure it in place. Both men were breathing a little unevenly by the time Nick was done. Grissom winced when Nick carefully slid his folded jacket under his head; he hated to think about the size of the knot growing above and behind his right ear where a rock had smacked his skull. He could feel the itch and pull of dried blood in his hair. _

_Nick snagged the bottle of spring water he'd stuffed into the backpack before they first entered the mine and helped Grissom take a small drink from it. The moisture eased the dryness in his throat, and he uttered a soft "thanks." He frowned up at Nick and asked, "How's your leg?"_

_"Hurts like hell," Nick admitted, the wry twist of his lips looking more like a grimace. "It's not bleeding much now, though, and the bone doesn't seem to be broken, so…" _

_"And your arm?"_

_What was intended as a dismissive shrug ended in another grimace and a sharp intake of breath. "Banged up my shoulder some," he said, then dismissed the subject of his own aches and pains by gesturing around them and summarizing their current situation. "We should be able to hold out for a while," he said with forced optimism. "At least we didn't get caught in that dead-end tunnel, so our air supply isn't such a problem. One helmet and both our flashlights survived, so we'll be able to see until the batteries go dead. We only have the one bottle of water; we'll have to go easy on that. No food. Kinda wish now we'd had a bigger breakfast."_

_"How long have we been in here already?" Grissom asked at the same time he sought to answer his own question by cautiously lifting his arm for a quick look at his watch. He found the crystal spider-webbed with cracks, but the hands still marked the passing seconds in measured increments. _

_"Near as I can figure, it's been about three hours." Nick's expression clouded. "You were out quite a while, man. I was gettin' really worried."_

_Grissom felt a flash of sympathy for the younger man. His colleagues might see him as dispassionate, even emotionless, but he could easily understand how frightening it must have been for Nick to envision being trapped in this stone hell with only a dead or dying man for company. If nothing else, the sense of helplessness would have been almost intolerable for someone of Nick's temperament. "I'm sorry, Nick," he said sadly, knowing that he was probably about to make matters worse for him. "Can you walk on that leg?"_

_Nick drew himself up straighter, a small frown marring his bruised and blood-crusted forehead. "If I have to, yeah." His tone said that he wasn't sure he liked whatever Grissom was leading up to._

_"Good." Grissom met his gaze almost reluctantly. "The next decision – whether to wait for someone to come looking for us when we don't show up for work tonight, or try to find a way out before then -- is yours, Nick," he said. "Moving when I did was not a smart thing to do. I think my back may have been injured. I'm losing the feeling in my legs."_

_To be continued…_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**Puzzle Taking Shape**

**Thursday, Near Dawn**

"Can't we get some power tools in here?" Warrick asked, his frustration at the slow progress of the rescue overflowing. Every muscle burned with fatigue after hours of grueling physical labor helping the search and rescue team remove the rubble. They had called in a second crew after Walcott announced that almost every square inch would have to be meticulously cleared; they had no way of knowing if they were engaged in a rescue or recovery operation.

Walcott had returned to the rotation twenty minutes earlier, after a rest break. He paused now, leaning on the pick he wielded with practiced precision, and lifting an arm to wipe sweat on his sleeve. "Too risky," he answered succinctly. "As unstable as this place is, the vibration could set off another collapse and bury all of us."

Warrick nodded in resignation as he raised the tail of his outer shirt, now tied around his waist, to blot his sweat-streaked face. He knew Walcott was right, but concern for his friends had declared open warfare on the rational need to proceed with suitable caution. The thought that Grissom and Nick might have suffered the same fate as Stevens burned like acid in his gut. Even more distressing was the possibility that they were trapped, injured, even dying, isolated from help by tons of debris.

He went back to work with renewed determination, glad to be able to take an active role in the effort to locate the two missing men. He had seen the almost mutinous reluctance on Sara's face when Catherine insisted that they both return to Las Vegas. And he knew that only Walcott's decree that extraneous personnel would not be allowed in the mine had swayed her decision. Only careful negotiation, and the reminder that the mine was most likely a crime scene, enticed the rescue leader to allow Warrick to remain.

"Found something here," one of the rescue men called, and Warrick made his way over to join him.

"What have you got?" Warrick asked, though he saw what the man had found as soon as he looked down. The clearing efforts had unearthed a 9 mm semi-automatic pistol, the metal now scratched and dented. Warrick carefully retrieved the weapon with a gloved hand, ejected the clip and worked the slide to clear the chamber. Six rounds were expended. The sweat trickling down his back turned cold at the implication of those missing rounds.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Warrick emerged from the mine shaft to the first pale suggestion of daybreak. Tired, filthy, and fighting a growing sense of despair, he accepted a cup of lukewarm coffee from one of the rescue support team and downed it in a single gulp, then held it out for a refill. He scrubbed a hand over his hair and grimaced as his fingers dislodged a flurry of dust and stone chips.

"There's food, too," the aide said helpfully. "It's not much – just Power Bars and fruit – but it'll help keep you going."

Warrick nodded his thanks and promised to grab something in a few minutes. He made his way over to the state police patrol car that had been on the scene for the duration and asked the trooper for the use of his radio. He should have checked in with Catherine before now, but had hoped to have good news for her when he made the call.

The state police dispatcher linked him through to the phone in the crime lab, and Catherine answered so quickly he suspected she had been sitting with her hand on top of the receiver.

"Any sign of them yet?" she asked.

"Not yet," Warrick answered with a sigh. "It's slow going, and there's no way to know how deep the cave-in runs."

He heard Catherine's sharply exhaled breath. "As long as we don't find bodies, there's a chance they're still alive."

"I recovered Stevens' weapon, with six rounds gone," Warrick reported somberly. "What have you come up with?"

Catherine told him about the positive GSR test on Stevens' hands and clothes, and filled him in on the rest of their findings. "Just like we thought, the photos in Grissom's camera were taken at the mine. Apparently they managed to uncover an old crime. The last frames were of a body, probably dead close to a year. It was all but mummified."

"About the time of the armed car robbery?" Warrick asked. He rubbed a hand over his face in an effort to force his brain to function logically.

"According to Doc, it's possible," Catherine replied. "The dry environment of the mine could desiccate a body pretty quickly. There's no way to know, though, without recovering the body for autopsy." She exhaled a brief sigh before she went on, "The blood on the money carriers doesn't belong to either of our guys. It's so old and degraded Greg couldn't recover any intact DNA or even get a type from it. We do know that Stevens was the last person to handle the bags. His prints were on the handles of all of them."

"That's not surprising. We found them in the trunk of his car."

"True. What is surprising is the fact that at some point, Stevens was in very close contact with Grissom. We found a couple of hairs – short, curly, and gray – caught under a shirt button, and blood and skin cells under his nails. DNA is still out on those, but the blood type is the same as Grissom's."

Warrick frowned. "Sounds like they tangled, _mano a mano_."

Catherine responded with a humorless laugh. "Does that sound like Grissom?" she asked skeptically. "He is the most nonviolent person I know. Half the time he forgets to carry his weapon."

"I didn't say he started it," Warrick countered. "But I have seen him get in someone's face if he thought it was justified. Anybody who feels threatened enough can be pushed to defend himself. Did Stevens have any marks or wounds that weren't caused by the rocks?"

"Nothing definite. Doc found broken bones, internal injuries, crushing head injury. Nothing that couldn't have been caused by the rock fall."

Warrick sighed and looked back toward the mine entrance, now completely clear of the boards that had blocked it earlier. "I'd better get back in there," he said wearily. "No telling how much more rock we'll have to clear before…"

He broke off abruptly when a dusty figure moved into the light at the mouth of the mine, his face grim and his gloved hands clenched on a battered hard hat cracked almost in half. The LVPD emblem stamped on the front bore deep scratches that in places obliterated the distinctive lines. Warrick started forward, feeling the coffee he'd drunk roiling in his stomach.

"We dug it out of the debris," the man said grimly.

Warrick, barely hearing Catherine's voice from the radio asking him what was going on, reached out to take the helmet and turn it slowly in his hand. He was somewhat encouraged to find no telltale signs that anyone's head had been inside it when the rocks did their damage. "Anything else?" he asked almost reluctantly.

The rescue man shook his head. "No. Just that."

Warrick peered closely inside it, focusing on the padded inner web that held it in place on its wearer's head. Stuck to the worn leather bands he spotted stray hairs – short, curly, gray hairs, like the ones Catherine said they'd found on the dead detective's shirt button.

_To be continued…_

**Author's Note: **I will tryto get Chapter Eight up before I leave town for the holidays, but I can't promise. Thanks again to all who have reviewed the story. I'm flattered and inspired by all your wonderfully positive comments.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **By popular demand (and a little prodding from my muse), here is one last chapter before holiday hiatus. This is a longer one, so maybe it will tide everyone over until I return. Next post won't be till Wednesday at the earliest, when I get back to town.

Reviewers, you're great! Thanks for the encouragement and the compliments and the demands for more. This one's for you.

Happy holidays to all of you! Ren

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

**Chapter Eight**

**No Easy Way Out**

**_Wednesday, Late Evening_**

_A harsh sound broke the mine's eerie silence and intruded on Grissom's uneasy sleep. Still only half aware and operating without conscious thought, he turned toward the source of the disturbance – and stilled just as quickly when new pain flared through his injured back. His eyes opened wide but saw nothing in the fathomless dark of the unlit tunnel. Nick had left him one of the MagLites, but Grissom had turned it off to conserve battery power. He'd insisted that Nick, venturing farther into the mine in search of another way out, take the second flashlight as backup to the lamp on his hard hat. Grissom vaguely remembered his own being lost as he grappled with Stevens, and suspected that it was somewhere at the bottom of the giant rock pile trapping them in the mine._

_Without visual distractions, and not wanting to contemplate the headache that had abated little since he's regained consciousness, he had fallen into a doze fairly soon after Nick disappeared from view. Now it was Nick's return that had wakened him. He listened in the dark to the slow, uneven progress, the scrape of a boot when Nick's injured leg dragged across the stone. After a few moments he became aware of a faint glow gradually chasing back the featureless blackness. He counted off six minutes and twenty-eight seconds before Nick finally dropped unceremoniously to the ground beside him. The flashlight rolled from Nick's suddenly lax hand to rake its path across the surrounding rock walls. The helmet light produced nothing more than a firefly glimmer._

_"No good," the younger man reported in a hoarse whisper. "The mine only goes back maybe another quarter of a mile. No escape tunnels." He paused to sip from the water bottle he'd left within Grissom's easy reach despite Grissom's insistence that he take it with him. "I saw what might be a ventilation pipe," Nick added after carefully capping the bottle, "but it's only about eight or ten inches across. If it is a vent, and if it's not blocked somewhere along the way, it should at least keep us from suffocating in here."_

_Grissom acknowledged the news with a brief nod. Seeing Nick's haggard face and air of total exhaustion, he wondered if he shouldn't have tried to talk him out of exploring farther. A darker, shinier patch on the leg of his jeans suggested that the gunshot wound had bled again, and pain etched deep grooves across Nick's forehead and bracketed his mouth. Despite the perspiration that slicked his face and glued his shirt to his body, his skin was as grey as the stone and his muscles quivered as if he suffered from palsy. Fever? Grissom wondered. Or shock from loosing too much blood?_

_"So, I guess we wait to be found," Grissom concluded. His stomach rumbled loudly, and he added with a faint attempt at humor, "Too bad we didn't pack a picnic lunch."_

_Nick shook his head with a grimace. "No," he protested. "No way. I can't just sit here and do nothing." He gathered himself to push up off the ground, but Grissom placed a restraining hand on his uninjured arm, feeling the fever-heat even before he made contact._

_"Relax, Nick," he said quietly. "You're about to drop where you sit. You need to rest, try to sleep a while, before you expend any more energy."_

_"There's no time," Nick insisted. "It's going to take hours to dig us out of here." He tried to pull his arm away, but Grissom tightened his grip. _

_"You don't have to kill yourself digging us out. As soon as we don't show up for our shift, they'll start looking for us."_

_Nick responded with a thin, desperate laugh. "Yeah?" he asked. "And how long will that take? Hours. And how long after that to figure out where we are? I didn't leave any messages telling anyone where we were headed. Did you?" There was challenge and something else in Nick's unsteady words. "Even if they do figure it out, how long will it take to find us? Hell, for all we know, Stevens moved the truck somewhere miles away, and no one will even know to look for us in here. He's smart enough to cover his tracks – and ours. Grissom, we could die in here way before anyone thinks to look!" _

_Grissom frowned at the panic he heard building in the tumbling spate of words. "Calm down, Nick," he commanded. "Listen to me for a minute." He paused to be sure he had the other man's attention, and when he continued he used the same smooth, calm voice he would have – and had -- used to defuse a potentially violent confrontation. "I know you're scared, Nick, and you want to get out of here. I'm scared, too. I want to get out just as much as you do. And we will. Catherine and the others will find us. The files were still on my desk along with the notes I made. They will look here for us. And I think they'll find the Tahoe exactly where we left it. There's a good chance Stevens didn't make it out either. Even if he did, how can he move our vehicle far enough away to throw off a search and still be able to easily get back to his own? Think about it, Nick. Stevens' main concern would be giving himself enough time to get clear with the money."_

_Nick's dark eyes had closed, and he nodded slowly as Grissom wove his carefully constructed logical safety net. _

_"You can do a much better job of helping us get out of here if you rest and get some of your strength back," Grissom concluded reasonably. "First, though, I want you to look in the first aid kit and see if there's any Tylenol. Not aspirin. Tylenol."_

_Nick frowned vaguely as he reached for the kit. "You hurting'?" he asked, fumbling one-handed inside and coming up with a sealed packet containing two Tylenol tablets. He used his teeth to tear it open and held it out."_

_"Take them," Grissom ordered. "You've got a fever, Nick, probably from infection in that wound." _

_With a grimace, Nick swallowed the tablets dry, choking on them until his body shook with violent coughing. He took another sip of water to clear his throat. "All right," he conceded, leaning back and trying to catch his breath. "I'll rest – just for a bit."_

_Grissom carefully brought his arm up and lifted his head just far enough to slide Nick's folded jacket from underneath. "Take this," he said. "Put it on. You're going to get chilled."_

_Nick reluctantly accepted the jacket and draped it over his chest, unwilling to move his right arm enough to put it on properly. He said nothing more as he eased himself down again. His eyes closed wearily, and he turned his face away from Grissom. Only a few seconds later his breathing slowed and his body relaxed in sleep, and Grissom reached over to turn off the flashlight. Even conserving the batteries in their remaining light sources, there was a good chance they would be left in the dark before help arrived._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Nick slept longer than Grissom had expected, but restlessly, disturbed by uneasy dreams punctuated by garbled mutterings and wordless sounds of distress. Grissom had debated waking him more than once, but decided that he needed whatever rest he could manage. When he was close to waking on his own, his dream talk became more distinct and seemed to be a replay of some earlier trauma involving a locked door and someone named Robbie. Grissom wondered if it was the cause of Nick's professed claustrophobia._

_Nick awoke with a start and a strangled exclamation that cut through the absolute darkness. Grissom switched on the light and saw the younger man sitting bolt upright, eyes wide and unfocused, fists raised as if to beat on some invisible barrier. The movement must have hurt, because he suddenly folded his right arm close against his chest, supporting it with his left as he sucked in a ragged gasp. His features contorted in a deep grimace, which turned into an embarrassed frown when he realized Grissom was watching him closely. His color was a little better, though his eyes still appeared somewhat feverish._

_"Sorry," he said hoarsely. "How long did I sleep?"_

_"Almost five hours," Grissom replied. "How are you feeling?"_

_Nick hesitated, seeming to take stock of himself. "Better." He carefully pushed up onto his knees, groaning a little at the pressure on his injured leg. His gaze went immediately to the rock wall looming before them and he inhaled a long breath. "Time to start digging."_

_"Take some more of that Tylenol if there's any left," Grissom ordered. "And drink some water. You'll sweat it out soon enough." As Nick dug another packet of tablets from the first aid kit and uncapped the water bottle, now barely half full, Grissom's curiosity got the better of him. "Who's Robbie?"_

_Nick almost choked on the pill mid-swallow. He stared at Grissom with suspicion and dread. "What?"_

_"You talk in your sleep," Grissom explained. _

_Nick took his time wiping the rim of the water bottle and replacing the top. "He's my cousin," he said finally._

_"And the reason you don't like confined spaces?"_

_"How did…?" Nick bit back his question. Grissom could almost see the internal debate over whether to explain. "Robbie's three – no, four – years older than me," he began a bit hesitantly, "my Uncle Nate's only kid, spoiled rotten. He was always a bully -- got a kick out of terrorizing the smaller, younger kids. As far back as I can remember, we couldn't stand each other."_

_Grissom waited in silence and watched Nick's expression shift as the memories unfolded. His frown, almost a little boy's pout, reflected remembered as well as present pain. Almost defiantly Nick went on with his explanation. "He thought I was a wuss, because I didn't like seeing anybody or anything get hurt. One time, when we were all at Uncle Nate's place for a family reunion, he started bragging about finding a litter of kittens in their storm cellar. He said he'd killed the mama cat and left the babies to starve." His mouth twisted briefly with a taut, wry smile. "He knew good ol' Boy Scout Nicky would go runnin' to the rescue. _

_"As soon as I was at the bottom of the cellar steps, he slammed the door shut and bolted it from the outside. The light didn't work, and I hadn't thought to take a flashlight with me – I was just going in long enough to scoop up the kittens into a box and bring them out. It was a small cellar, hardly bigger than a closet, and with the door open there was enough light from outside to see well enough." Nick's breath went out in a long, trembling sigh. _

_"Man, it was so dark…I went runnin' up the steps, tripped 'cause I couldn't see a thing, fell all the way back down and broke my ankle. So I sat there in the dark, and I yelled and I screamed till my mouth was so dry I couldn't even make spit. But everyone else was way out on the other side of the house, laughing, playing loud music. No one could hear me."_

_Grissom understood a great deal then, including Nick's insistence on taking some action – any action – that might free them, even if he had to drive himself to exhaustion in the process. The man was determined to wrest control from the frightened little boy who had been unable to help himself._

_"How old were you when this happened?"_

_"I'd just turned ten," he said bitterly. "Old enough not to be scared of the dark."_

_"And how long were you trapped in the cellar?" Grissom asked._

_Nick sighed before he answered, "I don't know. Hours. It probably felt longer than it was." _

_"What about the kittens? Were you able to save them?"_

_Nick's laugh was ragged and completely lacked humor. "Robbie lied. There were no kittens." He effectively ended the discussion by clambering awkwardly to his feet, nearly toppling over when his injured leg refused to accept the weight he rested on it. He crawled more than climbed a short way up the rocks and began systematically dislodging the uppermost rocks and heaving them down to the floor below, taking care to keep them well clear of where Grissom lay and watched in pensive silence._

_At first it seemed that his efforts earned him nothing except scraped and dusty hands and an increasing tendency to cough every time dust rose to clog his nose and throat. The upper layer of rock tended to crumble back down into the space he dug out. He had to pause now and then to catch his breath and let the trembling of overtaxed muscles ease. Except for occasional words of encouragement and reminders to take another drink from the nearly depleted water bottle, Grissom remained quiet. Nick's concentration was narrowly focused on the obstacle before him, and it seemed unwise to distract him from the potentially dangerous task he'd set himself. And after hours of digging, he finally made noticeable inroads on the blocked tunnel, creating a wedge-shaped space perhaps three feet long. _

_Grissom noted with growing concern that Nick's movements slowed, lost precision, became a product of more sheer raw determination than strength. "Take a break, Nick," he said from the base of the debris pile from which Nick doggedly and laboriously removed the rubble rock by rock. Even if he couldn't participate in their rescue, he could at least do what he did best: provide rational oversight and try to rein in the younger man's tendency toward excess._

_Nick rolled another skull-sized rock from near the top of the pile to clatter to the ground below. He shook his head without looking back at Grissom. "I'm okay," he insisted breathlessly and with blatant untruth. "If I can just clear a gap wide enough to crawl through…" He broke off as his strength failed and the stone he was trying to shift slipped from his grasp to roll with brutal precision across his injured leg. He didn't have enough breath in his lungs to scream, but the choked sob that emerged instead conveyed pain just as unmistakably. _

_"Nick!" Grissom's pulse accelerated and he extended his arm in a futile attempt to reach out to the injured man. The muscles of his face went rigid with helpless frustration; he could only watch as Nick clutched his thigh and sucked in a rapid succession of shallow, sobbing breaths. The weakening beam of the flashlight wedged in place to provide illumination reflected off the tears that spilled down an ashen face contorted with pain. The already dark stain on Nick's pant leg grew larger with new bleeding. _

_The worst of the pain seemed to ease, and Nick gradually uncoiled his body to rest as close to flat as he could manage on the irregular incline. His breath still came too quick and too shallow, and tremors ran through his limbs as if he experienced repeated small electrical shocks._

_"Grissom…I'm sorry," Nick whispered unsteadily. "I don't think…I can't…" _

_"It's all right, Nick," Grissom said reassuringly. "You've done the best you can for now. Just lay back and rest. I don't want you to hurt yourself worse than you already are."_

_Nick rolled his head from one side to the other, his ragged, pain-softened voice continuing to drift down like fragments of the broken stone. "No good…can't even do this right…sorry…let you down…"_

_Grissom ached for the torment in the younger man's fractured mutterings as much as he worried at the suggestion of delirium. Had Nick's fever spiked again after the exertions he'd forced from his weakened body? Was he starting to slip deeper into shock?_

_The light dimmed so that Grissom could see only the faintest outline of Nick's shape against the rocks. Nick must have noticed it too, because his hand flailed out, grabbing the MagLite and sending the anemic beam arcing wildly as he pulled it closer._

_"Don't go out, don't go out, don't go out," he implored the failing light._

_"It's all right, Nick," Grissom said firmly, trying to push back the panic threatening to envelop his companion. "I still have mine." He thumbed the switch to bring their last light source to life. "It still works."_

_Nick quieted, and his fingers loosened their hold on the spent flash. The MagLite rolled erratically down the slope and went completely dark. From his place on the tunnel floor Grissom could hear Nick's breathing slow from rapid gasps to a more controlled and measured sequence of inhale, exhale. Either the panic was subsiding, or he had passed out again. _

_"Still with me, Nicky?" Grissom asked, but quietly so as not to disturb him if he was drifting into sleep._

_"Yeah." The response came immediately but without much enthusiasm. A long sigh ended in a weak, pained cough. "Sorry I lost it there, man."_

_"I'm sorry, too, Nick," Grissom said. "Sorry I got us into this mess."_

_Nick's hand lifted weakly, waving away the apology. "Not your fault Stevens went dark-side." He coughed again and groaned faintly as if the movement hurt. "And, hey, I could've turned you down."_

_Grissom had no response for that. He wasn't sure it was entirely true. He was Nick's boss, and even though he had intended the request as an invitation rather than a command, Nick might have felt it was his duty to agree. Whatever Nick's other flaws might be, he had never failed to respond to that sense of duty, however unpleasant._

_"Would you have come alone?" Nick's voice had faded to a hoarse whisper, but Grissom heard it clearly enough. "If I'd begged off, would you have come up here alone?"_

_As much as Grissom recognized his subordinates' failings, he was equally well acquainted with his own. "Probably."_

_"In that case, I'm glad I came."_

To be continued…


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I hope everyone had a great holiday. Another round of thanks for all the great comments and reviews. The next chapter is ready, and another should follow late tonight or sometime tomorrow. Enjoy!

**Chapter Nine**

**Faith Alive**

**Thursday, Early Morning**

Jim Brass paused in the open door of Grissom's office and studied the slender shape of Catherine Willows, seated behind Grissom's cluttered desk. Her head was down, resting on folded arms, and the thick red-blond hair was mussed where it fell across her wrists. She had to be exhausted from anxiety alone. Jim knew that he felt as if someone had depleted the reservoir where his energy was stored; how much worse must it be for those who shared even closer ties with Grissom and Nick?

He stood for a time without moving, a freshly filled coffee mug in each hand, debating whether or not to wake Catherine. She made the decision unnecessary when she said without lifting her head, "Whoever you are with that heavenly smelling coffee…I'll be your sex slave for life if you'll share it."

Brass couldn't quite suppress a chuckle. "Better be careful who you make an offer like that to, gorgeous." And he moved forward to place one of the mugs on the desk as Catherine sat up and skimmed her disheveled hair back from her face with both hands. "It's some of Greg's good stuff," he said as she wrapped both hands around the mug and raised it close enough to inhale the fragrant steam. "Guess he figured the circumstances warranted generosity."

"Thanks, Jim." Catherine favored him with a smile that did little to disguise either her fatigue or her anxiety. "I haven't heard anything new, if that's why you're here," she added ruefully.

Brass knew that already. He was becoming regarded as something of a nuisance to the state police charged with responsibility for security at the scene and for relaying information from the remote location. He shook his head and deposited himself in a chair facing the desk, close enough to be able to park his own coffee cup on the edge. "I thought you'd want to know I did some checking into Dan Stevens," he told her. "Turns out Internal Affairs had their eye on him for a while. Way back when that SunWays heist went down there was some suspicion that he knew more about the perps and the missing money than he put in his reports. But they didn't turn up anything definite. Stevens didn't spend any extravagant amounts of money, and his service record had been pretty clean up to that point. So, they dropped their investigation."

"For once, I'd say IA should have been a little more diligent," Catherine remarked sourly, her full lips contorting in a grimace.

"Ain't it the truth? Never thought I'd see the day when I thought they should have pushed harder. Captain Garza is not a happy camper right now. In fact, I'm a little surprised he hasn't shown up down here."

"He's already asked for a copy of everything we have," she replied. "Along with updates as soon as we get new information."

Brass rubbed a hand over his face. "Be careful with them, Cath," he admonished. "They'll start seeing conspiracy theories and have our guys in league with Stevens."

Catherine's expression darkened even more as she nodded. "Yeah. When I talked to Garza's man, Lt. McNabb, his questions about Grissom and Nick were pretty pointed." She flashed a smile that was about as friendly as a tiger shark's. "I told him exactly what he could do with his innuendos."

Brass would have laughed if he didn't know how incredibly risky it was to piss off Internal Affairs. Some of those guys would have been perfectly at home during the Spanish Inquisition. "Just watch your step," he warned again. "You don't want to make enemies in that camp."

He glanced back out into the corridor, which seemed unnaturally quiet. There was something almost eerie about the lack of casual banter and purposeful conversation drifting from the individual labs and offices. "Where are Sara and Warrick?" he asked curiously. "I figured all three of you would be here till Search and Rescue found our guys."

Catherine sipped her coffee. "Warrick's still on the ridge, and Sara's working a case out in the field. She was starting to get on everyone's nerves, so Ecklie insisted that if we're going to be haunting the lab like uneasy ghosts, we work." She rolled her shoulders, whether in a shrug or a move to release tension Brass wasn't sure.

"Work. Is that what you were doing when I came in?" Brass shot her a small, teasing smile.

"I just finished updating the file with the last of the lab reports," she informed him, trying for a tone of offended pride but failing miserably. "Not that they're much help."

Brass sobered, and for a moment he looked down at the floor. He knew from Greg that they had found precious little physical evidence of any importance, and absolutely nothing that would give them a clear sense of what had happened inside the mine. The question that nagged at his thoughts, as it must have haunted the others, rose to the surface before he could even consider stuffing it back into its corner.

"What do you think, Cath?" he asked. "Do you think they'll find them alive?"

Catherine didn't answer immediately. The detective wondered how many times and in how many guises she had already heard that question. He hoped that she was confident enough in their friendship to answer honestly.

There was something unyielding in the look she gave him along with her words. "Until I see their cold dead bodies, I have to believe they're alive."

Brass nodded and pushed himself to his feet. "Keep the faith, eh?" he said as he collected his cup and prepared to leave.

"Always."

"I'm going to head home for a couple of hours," he said. "Give me a call if you hear anything new."

Catherine nodded, and Brass turned toward the door. He felt every one of his fifty-one years, and then some, as he navigated the familiar corridors without really seeing his surroundings. The sun seemed almost painfully bright when he emerged from the building and plodded to his car, and he sat behind the wheel for several moments before finally inserting the key and starting the engine. He'd gone less than a mile before his cell phone rang.

He had to hold the device a couple of inches from his ear as Catherine's urgent voice came over the line. Most of what she said was too rushed and incoherent to comprehend. Two words, though, caught his attention and made the brilliant morning sun seem less an assault than a fitting backdrop for the news: "They're alive!"

_To be continued…_


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** By popular demand, here is the next installment. There be a bit of delay before any more posts.My beta won't be available for a few days while she's off visiting her sister and spoiling her nephew.

If you have any specific scenes beyond this you'd like to see, please let me know.Although the rest of the story is mapped out, there is still room for adjustment. Thanks forbeing a great audience!

**Chapter Ten**

**Out of the Darkness**

**Thursday, Morning**

Grissom could no longer say how much time had passed. Had he been dozing? It disturbed him that his thoughts were becoming disjointed, as if the numbness invading his body had spread to his mind and made everything seem distant and just slightly out of focus. He considered turning on the light long enough to try to see his watch, but decided it would be a wasted effort. The batteries were so depleted, even with only intermittent use, that the light produced barely touched the Stygian darkness. He only turned the flashlight on now when Nick was awake, and those intervals had become briefer and less frequent. At the moment, Nick was asleep – or, more likely, unconscious – sprawled on the rock slope he no longer had the strength or coordination to try to descend.

The sounds that reached Grissom through the darkness had become so familiar they now registered only as another element of the ambient atmosphere: Nick's occasional incoherent mumblings between rasping coughs that left him gasping for breath, the faint rattle that accompanied each shallow inhalation. Another noise slowly insinuated itself into Grissom's awareness, and it took a moment for its significance to register. He was so accustomed to the scrape of stone on stone when Nick made any sort of move that he failed to notice, at first, that the sound came from farther away, beyond the stone barricade.

There it was again – a series of thumps and cracks underlain by sporadic bursts of something that sounded almost like a radio turned just at the audible threshold. His own heartbeat began to interfere with his attempt to isolate and identify the sounds; it echoed from within, accelerating with the hope that rescue was near at hand.

"Nick!" he called sharply, switching on the fading light at the same time. It wasn't enough to allow him to see the other man clearly, but at least it kept the dark from being absolute. "Nick, wake up!"

A low groan and another cough answered him, followed by the scrape of movement against the rocks and a faint curse. "Grissom? 's wrong?" Nick's voice was weaker and more slurred than the last time he'd spoken, but at least he responded.

"Listen," Grissom commanded. "Do you hear that?"

After a moment he saw Nick push himself partway upright, and a few small rocks clattered down the slope. Nick moved closer to the short tunnel he'd created and called as loudly as he could, "Hey! We're here! HEY!"

The muted sounds ceased, and Grissom wondered if he had only imagined them before. No, his rational mind insisted. Nick must have heard them, too, or he wouldn't have roused himself to call out.

A flurry of scrabbling noises confirmed his earlier thoughts, and a few minutes later a thin shaft of light slanted through the rocks to illuminate a narrow path through the gloom. "Nicky? Grissom?" The voice that called through the gap was distinctly Warrick's, and at that moment a Bach concerto could not have rivaled the music of that sound. "Talk to me, guys! You all right?"

"Warrick?" Nick's voice cracked as another cough stole his breath. When he had recovered he inched closer to the opening. "Get us outta here, man," he begged shakily.

Warrick's answering words reflected concern. "Talk to me, Nicky," Grissom heard him say. "How bad are you hurt?"

When Nick didn't answer right away, Grissom called from his greater distance, but with more clarity, "Warrick? Nick's not doing too well. Gunshot – fever – he's not breathing too well either."

"Grissom? How 'bout you? You in better shape than Nick?"

"I'm not bleeding," Grissom answered vaguely. "I can't move, though. How long till you clear a big enough opening to get us out of here?"

"Not long," Warrick assured him. "I'm gonna move back now and let Search and Rescue take over. I'll be waitin' for you, though."

Grissom had no doubt of that. "Tell them to be careful," he called back. "Nick's on the breakdown slope, just below the open space."

At that Nick roused enough to shift farther back. "Jus' get 's outta here," he said, his words slurred and barely a whisper.

As the rescue team worked, Grissom watched the shaft of light widen until the entire upper strata of the tunnel took on almost daylight brightness. Of course they would have brought in work lights powered by a generator outside the mine or, more likely, battery packs the size of a small refrigerator. As they cleared more and more of the rubble Grissom was able to distinguish at least six different voices.

"Nick? Grissom?" Warrick called out to them again. "We've got a decent crawlspace opened up now. We're coming through."

The light dimmed as Warrick blocked the newly created passage to emerge a few moments later. He quickly moved to the side to give the other rescuers space to come through. He crouched beside Nick and placed a light hand on his friend's chest. "Hey, Nicky. How ya doin'?"

Grissom didn't hear a response, but Nick must have made some effort to answer, because Warrick patted his chest again and gestured to the two S&R men who maneuvered a basket litter through the tunnel. "Hang in there, man. These guys'll have you out of here in no time." Nick lifted his uninjured arm and clasped Warrick's in a brief, brotherly gesture before allowing it to drop again.

Warrick straightened and descended the slope to drop into a crouch again by Grissom. He summoned a smile that only partially erased the worry lines from his face. "How ya doin', Gris?"

Grissom met the concerned green gaze evenly and answered with brutal honesty. "My leg is broken, but it doesn't hurt because I can't feel much of anything. I have the great-grandfather of all headaches. And a slab in the morgue would probably be more comfortable than these rocks." He blinkedasprofound relief made hiseyes sting. "I'm ready to get out of here."

"They'll bring another litter through as soon as they get Nick on his way," Warrick said, looking over his shoulder to where the rescuers were busy immobilizing Nick's leg and preparing to transfer him to the waiting litter. "Good thing we have a Medi-Vac on standby. It should be here by the time we get you outside."

Grissom nodded, then recalled the reason he and Nick were in this predicament in the first place. "Stevens," he said abruptly. "He trapped us in here so he could steal the money from the SunWays heist."

"I know," Warrick said. "We found the money in his car. Stevens didn't make it. He got caught in the cave-in."

"I can't say I'm sorry to hear that," Grissom commented, a little surprised at the vehemence in his tone. "There's a body back there in a side tunnel. The fourth man from the heist. Stevens told me he killed him once he found out where the money was hidden. You'll need to recover the body and any evidence that might still be there."

"I know my job, Gris. As soon as we get both of you out of here," Warrick promised, "I'll take care of it." He looked up as the rescue team arrived with an empty litter and their equipment. At a signal from the lead medic, he stood up and moved away to give them room to work.

Grissom discovered that only immobility had kept him from feeling pain from his injured back and leg. As careful as the rescuers were, he still had to clench his teeth against an urge to yell when they tipped his body over just enough to slide the backboard underneath, and stabilized the makeshift backpack splint Nick had fashioned with a more rigid one. The fire smoldering within abused tissues and nerves ignited with a vengeance and left him sweating and panting for breath when they completed the process a five-minute eternity later.

During the awkward jostling journey through the rocky passage and down the long, echoing mine tunnel, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on anything unrelated to the here and now: the life cycles of sixteen varieties of fly and twenty-three moth species, the chemical compositions of various insect venoms, numbers. Numbers were good; there were so many of them – driver's license, Social Security, bank account, bank routing, credit cards, the phone numbers of everyone he now or had ever known.

Suddenly the stale, still air of the mine became a stiff breeze that whipped against his face. He peeled his eyelids open to sunlight so bright his eyes watered in response. The sound he had mistakenly thought was the pulse of his own blood through the vessels in his head proved to be the steady whump of the Medi-Vac chopper's rotors. The wide sliding door was open; Nick had already been loaded inside, and the on-board paramedic was tending him with brisk precision.

Grissom felt a light touch on his arm and looked over at Warrick, who had fallen into step with the men carrying the litter. "I'll contact Catherine," Warrick said, raising his voice to be heard above the noise, "let her know you guys are on the way."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay in getting this next chapter up. I've been wrestling with a rabid plot bunny who kept chewing on my ankle, trying to force me into introducing another source of angst into a story that should have been winding down to its conclusion. :sigh: Then my beloved beta, Maekala, had to go and agree with the bunny! The following is the result of the battle that I lost in rather spectacular fashion.

**Chapter Eleven**

**Suspicious Minds**

Catherine ran out of the LVPD complex and started toward her car, but stopped and looked around when a horn beeped close by. She turned and saw Jim Brass bring his department sedan to a stop just behind her. The time it had taken to relay Warrick's report that Grissom and Nick had been found alive to the rest of the team and to the higher-ups in the department had allowed Brass time to return. He leaned out the open window and said, "Get in. I'll drive you."

She hesitated only a moment before she trotted over to the sedan and slipped into the passenger seat. "I thought you were going home," she said.

"Sleep can wait," Brass replied with a shrug Catherine didn't believe was as nonchalant as he made it seem. "They're my friends, too." After a brief pause, he asked, "What kind of shape are they in?"

Catherine's relief that her friends had been located and freed from the collapsed mine dimmed when she recalled Warrick's terse words describing their condition. "Pretty rough," she told Brass. "Nick was shot in the leg and has some other injuries. Gil…" She hesitated, swallowing back a wash of fear. "He may have broken his back. The medics on scene couldn't make a positive diagnosis."

"Damn." Brass's knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel harder. "They're being air-lifted to the hospital?"

Catherine nodded. "The chopper had just taken off when Warrick called. He stayed behind to recover the body they found in the mine before everything went to hell." Her lips lifted briefly in a wry smile. "Even injured, Grissom was still giving orders."

Twenty minutes later they arrived at Desert Palms Medical Center. Catherine saw that the Medi-Vac helicopter had already landed and now sat empty on the pad near the emergency entrance. She jumped from the car almost before Brass was completely parked and ran inside, stopping at the desk and flashing her identification at the same time she asked about the two men who had just been brought in.

The nurse gave the ID only a cursory glance. "You'll have to wait until the doctors have assessed their conditions," she said with neither emotion nor much interest. "The waiting room is over there." She scarcely looked away from the computer screen on her desk as she gestured vaguely to Catherine's left.

Catherine restrained the urge to reach across the desk and shake the woman. "Listen…"

Brass materialized beside her and interrupted to identify himself as well. "Miss, I realize that you have your policies and procedures," he began, his tone both reasonable and assertive. "But you need to understand that those two men are LVPD personnel and victims of criminal activity. I need to get statements, and Ms. Willows needs to collect any evidence that may be compromised or mishandled by your medical staff."

The nurse looked up then, her demeanor clearly communicating that she didn't like pushy people. She stood up from the counter-height stool on which she was perched. "I'll speak to the doctors," she conceded stiffly. "Wait here."

The woman had scarcely disappeared from view when the outer doors opened again and Catherine stiffened at the sight of two unwelcome newcomers striding through with all the purpose of a mission from God. Captain Garza and Lt. McNabb wore matching expressions of grim determination. Almost in lockstep they approached the intake desk, and neither looked any more pleased to see Catherine and Brass than they were to see the IA detectives.

"You shouldn't be here," Garza said flatly.

Catherine didn't know whether to laugh or spit in his face. "Excuse me?" she retorted in disbelief. "Those are my friends -- my boss and a close colleague – in there," she reminded him sharply. "I have every right to be here."

Garza flicked a glance at Brass. "Captain, would you like to educate Ms. Willows on the finer points of an internal investigation?" he asked with deceptive mildness.

Brass smiled the same smile that had crumbled the resolve of more than one stubborn suspect. "So, is this an official investigation, Garza?" he asked in return. "Or is this just you trying to save face after you let Stevens fool you the first time around?"

"It is official," Garza said. "A cop is dead, two department employees are injured, and two million missing dollars suddenly surfaces after almost a year. We have an obligation to find out exactly what went on."

"Did you guys even bother to read the reports Ms. Willows and her people sent over?" Brass inquired, his temper starting to show in the clipped precision of his words. "Stevens was the only one armed, and the money was found in the trunk of his car. It looks to me like he was the only one planning to benefit here."

Garza's expression did not change. "Ever heard of a falling out among thieves?"

Catherine could no longer stand back and watch the two detectives; nor could she contain her indignation. "Just a damned minute," she cut in hotly. "The only thief is Dan Stevens. There is no way in hell Grissom or Nick would have been in on his schemes!"

"Two million dollars is a lot of temptation for any man."

"Not these two," she insisted, furious at the mere suggestion.

McNabb had stepped up beside his partner, forming a united front to counter that represented by Catherine and Brass. He, however, played the role of reluctant peacemaker. "We understand your loyalty, Ms. Willows," he said smoothly. "But you have to understand that we can't take anything for granted. Procedure requires a full investigation of this incident."

Catherine stepped up and jabbed a forefinger into the detective's broad chest. "You go right ahead and investigate," she challenged. "You won't find a damned thing to even suggest that our men were anything but victims."

"I hope you're right," he returned, glancing down at the hand that still threatened. "We will, of course, be taking both their statements as soon as the doctors allow. And until we've done so, they won't be allowed any other visitors."

"What?" Catherine stared at him with open dislike. "You can't do that."

"Yes, we can," Garza interjected. "Again, Captain Brass can verify this as standard procedure. Their answers cannot be influenced by any information that you might – even inadvertently – pass on that could change what they tell us."

Catherine turned to Brass, her wide, flashing eyes asking the question she was too angry to voice. He sighed in response and nodded with obvious reluctance. Too angry to speak, Catherine swung away from all three. Almost immediately she found herself facing the intake nurse as she returned from the treatment bays beyond a set of wide swinging doors.

The nurse looked warily at each member of the small but noticeably unfriendly group gathered near the counter. Her expression hardened when Garza and McNabb advanced on her like a pair of circling vultures. "You're with the police, too?" she asked.

Both men showed their ID's, with Garza adding that they were from Internal Affairs. "We'll be taking statements from two of your recently admitted patients – Grissom and Stokes," he informed her.

The woman frowned, obviously unimpressed by their insistence. "As I told your colleagues," she said without regret, "you'll have to wait until the doctors give their approval."

"And when will that be?"

"I really can't say," the nurse replied. "It may be some time – depending on whether they will need to be taken directly to surgery."

Catherine stepped closer. "What about evidence collection?" she asked.

"They understand the situation," the nurse conceded, "and they have handled crime victims before. One of the nurses will collect their clothes and other personnel effects and bring them out to you. Now, if you'll all just have a seat in the waiting area…" She gestured to an open space to their left.

Catherine turned away in frustration, hearing Brass's footsteps a short distance behind her. When she reached the waiting area she flung herself into a chair and raked her fingers through her disheveled hair in a gesture of complete exasperation. A quick glance revealed the two IA investigators still standing near the intake desk, heads bent close in urgent conversation.

"Want some coffee, or a soda?" Jim asked, breaking into her dark thoughts.

Catherine shook her head briefly. "What I want…" she began sharply before cutting off her own tirade. Her eyes stung with furious tears and she covered her face with both hands.

Jim Brass sat down beside her and reached for her nearer hand. She allowed his larger fingers to enclose hers, seeking reassurance from that simple touch. Damn it, she didn't want to cry! But the emotions she'd kept bottled up for so many hours screamed for an outlet. She clung to his hand as tears oozed from between her tightly closed eyelids.

"Catherine?"

Sara's voice, hesitant and scared, snapped her back to full awareness, and she opened her eyes to see the younger woman standing rigidly in front of her. She wiped her face and mustered a watery smile, knowing that Sara would assume the worst from seeing her having a melt-down. "It's all right," she said quickly. "They're both alive. I'm just madder than hell because they won't let us in to see them. And now IA is here," she added with even more heat, "and they insist on ­being the first ones to talk to the guys – something about not wanting their statements influenced by anything we might say to them." She all but spat the last words.

"Bastards," Sara succinctly summarized her feelings about IA. She took the chair on Catherine's other side and leaned forward slightly, arms resting on her knees. "Do you know anything yet about how bad the guys are hurt?"

Catherine shook her head. "Only what Warrick told me from the scene – which wasn't very much." She quickly filled Sara in on the few details Warrick had been able to give her.

Sara said nothing for several moments, but Catherine could see her working to keep her reaction in check. Her long fingers clenched themselves into a tight ball of white knuckles, and her lips took on the pinched look of someone who'd bitten into something extremely sour. When Catherine reached over and patted the younger woman's arm, Sara turned wide, intense eyes on her and said, "They'll be all right, you know. They have to be."

Before Catherine could frame a reply, one of the scrub-suited nurses, a woman she knew from past cases involving live victims, approached with a large paper sack in each hand. Catherine and Sara stood to meet her.

"Their clothes and things," the nurse, Peggy Cates, explained. "I collected everything myself and sealed the bags. And you'll get a copy of the medical assessment detailing their injuries as soon as all the test results are in."

Catherine nodded. "How are they doing?"

The nurse glanced around, her expression uncertain. "Catherine, you know it's not my place…"

"Peg, please."

"Look, I could lose my job if I give you any details. But they're both stable, and you know they'll get the best possible care. The doctors will answer your questions as soon as they can."

She turned away before Catherine could press for more information. Catherine looked down at the two bags she now held. Someone would have to take them to the lab. She didn't want to leave, and she felt fairly certain Sara would refuse.

"I'll call Greg," Sara offered, forestalling the inevitable argument. "He's still at the lab, working on evidence from another case. He can come pick these up, process everything…"

Catherine nodded slowly, at once relieved to have another solution and oddly reluctant to give up possession of the bags. She didn't release her grip until Sara gave them a small tug, and immediately tucked her now empty hands under her elbows so neither Sara nor Brass would see them shaking.

_To be continued..._


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Many thanks to those who have patiently awaited an update. Real life, in cahoots with a small bout with writer's block,rose up and got in the way of new chapters. This is just a small bit, and it will probably be next week before I can get more posted, as I'm departing soon for work-related travel. Thanks also for your reviews and your continued support for this story.

**Chapter Twelve**

Warrick was anxious to get back to the city, to shower away the layers of accumulated dirt and sweat, to find out just how badly his friends were hurt. A quick phone call as soon as he was within cell range had yielded no new information. He chafed at the length of the drive back in the coroner's van transporting the months-old corpse, made even more tedious by the unsociable driver's insistence on traveling at least five miles under the legal speed limit. Exhausted by the past many hours' efforts, he had hoped to catch a short nap on the journey, but the vintage acid rock pouring from the radio kept intruding on his efforts to do so. His suggestion that the volume was a lot louder than either necessary or comfortable earned him only a "fuck off" stare from the morgue assistant. Why couldn't Dave Phillips have been working this shift?

At least they had an ID for the shriveled corpse. A pants pocket yielded a wallet containing fourteen dollars in cash and a driver's license whose photo and description seemed to match the dead man. Preliminary examination of the body revealed two closely spaced gunshot wounds in the chest, one of which had probably pierced his heart. One bullet had exited through the man's back and struck the rock wall behind him. Warrick didn't hold out much hope the badly damaged slug would be of any use. Perhaps they'd have better luck with the one still lodged somewhere inside the body. There had been little else immediately visible in the way of trace evidence, just a few stray fibers and a couple of strands of hair that didn't match the victim's.

Once back in the familiar confines of the lab, Warrick logged in the scant evidence. What should have been quick and relatively simple ended up taking three times as long, since every tech in the lab had questions about the incident that was now the number one topic of conversation. And it was from one of the techs he learned that IA was now involved and investigating Grissom and Nick for possible ties to Stevens' apparent theft.

He spent longer in the shower than usual, finally managing to scrub the last of the dirt from skin and hair and using the time to bring his anger at IA under control. He dressed quickly in clean clothes and was on his way out of the building when a familiar, and not particularly welcome, voice hailed him.

Warrick turned toward Conrad Ecklie, his brows contracting when the day-shift supervisor motioned him closer. "I'm on my way to the hospital," he said shortly.

"There's no rush," Ecklie replied. His narrow face wore its habitual expression of vague displeasure. "IA has imposed a 'no contact' order until they get official statements."

"What?" Warrick's voice rose as anger surged through him again. "What the hell do they think…?"

"Calm down," Ecklie cut in, patting the air in a placating gesture. "It's procedure. You know that."

Warrick's eyes flashed and his frustration boiled over. "Yeah, and I'm sure you were right there with them, leading the witch hunt," he accused. "You're all out of your minds if you think Grissom or Nick had anything to do with Stevens' plan to steal that armored car take. But that's your style isn't it, Ecklie? You decide which answer you want, then look for the evidence to support it – whether it's right or not. You've been after Grissom as long as I've known you. This must be a dream come true for you."

Ecklie's mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed. He didn't answer immediately, and when he spoke again his voice dropped to a dangerously low murmur. "I'm going to take the stress of the present situation into account and not file a complaint against you for insubordination to a supervisor. But you think about this. It seems to me, Brown, that you're the one with the preconceived ideas. You can't even consider that your night-shift buddies could ever step over the line. It's exactly that kind of tunnel-vision that an IA investigation will avoid. And it is precisely the reason why Captain Garza has asked me to personally review all the forensic evidence related to this case."

For a moment Warrick simply stared at the day supervisor. A hundred angry responses crashed through his thoughts, but he gritted his teeth against each one. It wouldn't do anyone, least of all his friends, any good if he stepped far enough over the line to get himself suspended. Finally, with a wordless snort of combined disbelief and derision, he turned his back on Ecklie and left.

_TBC..._


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Once again, thanks for your reviews and your patience as I try to fit in fic writing with real life. New year, new demands...you know how it goes! Now that I'm through with traveling for a while, maybe the chapters will come a bit faster. This one is quite a bit longer than the last ones. Enjoy!

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Questions and Answers**

Too many hours after being freed from the collapsed mine on Harper Ridge, Gil Grissom was finally, blessedly alone. He exhaled a long sigh as his gaze swept around the room to which he'd been moved after undergoing a brief, uncomplicated surgery to stabilize the broken bones in his leg. For the first time since his arrival at the hospital no doctors, nurses, technicians, or orderlies swarmed around him. He wasn't sure if it was an overwhelming sense of relief or the residual anesthetic circulating through his system making him feel slightly light-headed. The preceding hours had been a nightmare blur of unfamiliar faces and hands, the indignity and humiliation that were inevitable and necessary in emergency medicine. As dispassionate as he had always schooled himself to be at crime scenes, he'd found it impossible to maintain that same level of detachment when he was the victim.

The solitude of this small, nondescript room was a balm to his frayed nerves even though the surroundings themselves offered little to soothe his senses. Almost everywhere he looked he saw white -- white ceiling, white walls, starched white sheets and thin white blanket covering him. The window offered a small hint of color in draperies of muted green and blue sketched in small geometric shapes. The sturdy upholstery on a single visitor's chair angled into the far corner of the room echoed the pattern. The plain circular wall clock showed the time as 6:03, and the reddish cast of the scant light filtering in between the edges of the drapes told him it was P.M. rather than A.M. To the right of the clock, a ceiling-mounted television faced the bed; the blank, black screen stood out against the white wall like some kind of malignant growth.

There were no machines nearby to generate rhythmic background sounds, but from the corridor outside the closed door he heard the faint rattle of a wheeled cart. He surmised it carried dinner trays for the patients on this floor. Voices over a paging system sporadically broke the relative silence, and from the adjoining room a burst of loud laughter sounded like the cackling of a startled hen.

Grissom turned his head when someone tapped lightly on his door, but had no time to call a response before it opened. A pleasant-faced woman wearing blue scrub pants and a flower-patterned scrub shirt entered briskly. She carried an electronic notepad, and her middle-aged features shaped a smile when she saw him watching her approach.

"Good evening, Mr. Grissom," she greeted him. "You probably don't remember me from when they brought you to the room. I'm Angie, one of the floor nurses." She stopped beside the bed and checked the drip from the bag of clear fluid suspended on a metal T-stand. She carefully straightened a slight kink in the plastic tube running from the bag into the port taped in place on the back of his hand. "You're looking a bit more alert than you did then."

"I remember you," he said mildly, but his voice came out rusty. He frowned and tried to clear his throat, feeling the rasping dryness that came of having nothing to drink in far too long.

Angie poured water from a pitcher on the bedside cart into a lidded plastic cup and stuck a flexible straw into its top. "Here you go, hon," she said with another smile, holding the cup in place and guiding the straw toward his mouth. "Just small sips, now, just in case you're still queasy from the anesthesia."

He drank cautiously, but felt only the relief of the cool liquid sliding over his tongue and down his throat. "Thank you."

He watched as Angie replaced the cup and moved to the foot of the bed. She carefully turned the blanket and sheet back to expose his injured leg, encased in a bizarre looking wire cage. "No cast?" he asked curiously.

Angie glanced up at him with another small smile as she pressed her fingers against his swollen ankle. "Not just yet," she replied. "Once the surgical wounds have healed, they'll put a cast on it. Till then, this crazy looking contraption and the pins they put in will keep those bones in place." She patted his foot in a motherly gesture. "Dr. Baines will be glad to know you've got a good, strong pulse in your ankle. He'll be along in a little bit, by the way. How's your foot, hon? Any numbness? Cold?"

Grissom carefully assessed the ghostly sensations registering in his brain. "Numb," he said at last. "But an achy kind of numb."

She nodded and picked up the notepad to record the information. "Let's just check the rest of your vitals, and maybe by then the doctor will be here. I'm sure you've got lots of questions for him."

He did indeed. First and foremost was whether or not he had done irreparable damage to his spine. The fact that he was aware of his extremities, even though they felt leaden and only distantly attached to his body, gave him a measure of hope. He searched his disjointed memories of the tests and examinations that had followed his arrival in the ER and vaguely recalled talk of hairline fractures, swelling, impeded nerve function.

"Until the doctor arrives," he said as Angie recorded his blood pressure and stuck a digital thermometer in his left ear, "perhaps you can answer another kind of question for me." His stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly.

Angie's pink lips twitched into a smile. "If you're going to ask me to smuggle you in a pizza," she said, "the answer is no."

"I don't want a pizza," Grissom assured her. "I'd like to find out about another patient who came in at the same time I did."

The woman's brows drew down into a slight frown. "The only other new arrival on this floor is a sixty-year-old carpenter who fell off a ladder. Your friend must be in a different unit – or wasn't admitted at all."

Grissom started to say more, but the door opened again to admit a tall, athletically built African-American man wearing a hospital coat over his scrubs. The ID tag clipped to his pocket bore the name L. Baines, M.D. Grissom remembered him, too, from earlier.

"Mr. Grissom," the doctor said, "how are you feeling?" He glanced at the information Angie had recorded on the electronic notepad before nodding to the nurse and permitting her to go about her business.

"A little battered," Grissom answered truthfully, "but better than I expected."

That drew a faint smile from the doctor. "Battered is a fairly accurate assessment," he said. "But all things considered, you're very fortunate your injuries weren't more severe. Are you ready for the details?"

"Yes."

"Both bones in your lower right leg were fractured – fortunately those were nice, simple fractures that were fairly easy to repair. You also suffered minor fractures in three of your vertebrae, but with no displacement and no disruption of the spinal cord."

Grissom frowned. "So why can't I move my legs?" he asked.

"Even though your spinal cord is intact," Baines explained, "there is some swelling as a result of the fractures and from soft tissue damage. That swelling is impeding the flow of nerve impulses below the locus of the injury. We'll use corticosteroids and other medications to reduce the swelling. I've consulted a neurologist, and he agrees to wait and see if surgery will be necessary to repair the fractures."

Grissom gestured toward his midsection where a rigid brace encircled his body from hipbones to ribcage. "And in the meantime, I get to wear a metal corset?"

Baines answered with a wry smile. "I know it's not the most comfortable apparel," he said. "I was in one myself after a car accident when I was in college. But it will protect your spine from any further injury while the fractures heal."

"Which will take how long?"

"Several weeks, assuming no complications. With appropriate physical therapy, you should regain full sensation and mobility."

Grissom felt that an enormous weight had been lifted from his chest. As much as he dreaded a prolonged recovery, it was a far better alternative than a lifetime of disability. After several moments he said simply, "Thank you."

"You do have some other minor injuries," Baines continued. "The same impact that caused the spinal fractures also bruised your kidneys, which we'll be monitoring very closely these next several days. And we had to stitch up a laceration on your head. There's a pretty sizable lump underneath it, but no skull fracture. I'd be willing to guess that you've got a headache though."

The doctor was right about that, but Grissom answered only with a small shrug. He suppressed a grimace when the movement caused the back brace to dig uncomfortably into his side.

Baines shifted his stance and glanced toward the door. "Unless you have questions, Mr. Grissom, I need to finish my rounds. And you have some visitors, if you feel up to it." When Grissom didn't respond immediately, he added, "They asked to see you as soon as possible, but if you'd prefer, I can suggest they wait until morning."

"It's fine," Grissom said. He knew his team would be anxious to see for themselves that he was alive and relatively intact. And he trusted that Catherine, at least, would know him well enough to keep the visit short.

The doctor nodded again and left, pausing in the half-open doorway to speak to someone waiting outside. Grissom turned toward the door expecting to see Catherine, Sara, and Warrick. His brows puckered into a frown when a serious looking man came in.

"McNabb?" he said slowly. "This is an unexpected….turn of events. Are you here officially or just to talk over old times?" He remembered McNabb as a competent detective, and had been assigned to several of the man's investigations over the years. He'd been a little surprised when McNabb accepted a transfer to Internal Affairs six months earlier.

Lt. McNabb looked vaguely uncomfortable. He cast a quick glance back at the door before stepping farther into the room. "Captain Garza will be joining us in a minute," he said with a certain grimness. "He got a phone call just before the doc gave us permission to speak with you."

Grissom's eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. "So it's official."

"I'm afraid so." McNabb removed a small tape recorder from his coat pocket and set it on the bedside table. "We need a statement from you about what happened yesterday on Harper Ridge."

"What happened is Dan Stevens tried to kill Nick Stokes and me. His death is the result of his own schemes gone wrong."

McNabb looked pained by the hard edge in Grissom's voice. "So you know Stevens died in that mine collapse?"

"Yes."

"Don't say any more just yet," McNabb cautioned. "I'll need to get it all on tape, but Garza wants to be here for the questioning." He glanced at the door again to make sure his superior wasn't on his way in. "Look, Grissom, just between you and me, I don't think you did anything inappropriate, but Garza's got a burr up his butt, so he's likely to come at you pretty hard."

Grissom regarded the detective. "Any particular reason, or does he not like CSIs either?"

McNabb shrugged. "Stevens slipped the net when he was investigated last year, and Garza wants to make sure he didn't have help hiding what he was up to. Look, he'd have my ass in a sling if he knew I was giving you a heads-up on what to expect…"

The door opened then, and McNabb shut up quickly, his faintly apologetic expression turning to stone.

"Mr. Grissom," Garza said as he strode in. "I am here to inform you that you are being questioned as part of an official investigation into the death of Detective Daniel Stevens and the reappearance of money missing from the SunWays Armored Transport robbery that took place on March 8 of last year."

Grissom fixed a bland stare on the IA captain. "Good evening to you, too, Captain Garza," he said with pointed courtesy.

Garza withdrew a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket and made a curt gesture to McNabb, who pressed the "Record" button on the tape recorder he'd set out earlier. Garza identified himself as the investigator and Grissom as the subject of this interview for the official record. He added a note about the date, time, and location, then went immediately to the point. "Mr. Grissom, how did you come to be on Harper Ridge yesterday?"

"I was attempting to determine if the two million dollars stolen from a SunWays Armored Transport truck last year was hidden in an abandoned silver mine on Harper Ridge."

Garza's subsequent questions and Grissom's concise answers covered the events and decisions that had resulted in Grissom's call to Dan Stevens the previous morning and the presence of the detective and two CSIs on the ridge. They covered in excruciating detail the CSIs' discovery of the body inside the mine, their return to find Stevens loading the bags of stolen money into his car, the confrontation that ultimately led to Stevens' death and Grissom and Nick being trapped and injured. Throughout the questioning, Garza seemed almost annoyed that Grissom responded promptly and in the same level, reasonable tone he used on the witness stand in court.

"What was your role in the original SunWays robbery?" Garza asked abruptly.

Grissom's eyebrows lifted in vague surprise at Garza's choice of phrasing. "I had no role in the robbery," he answered evenly. "In the _investigation_ of the robbery, I was the lead CSI."

"And who assisted you in that investigation?"

"Sara Sidle."

Garza paused a beat before he asked, "No one else?"

Grissom answered with a miniscule shrug. "Initially, Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes also responded."

"And did they also take part in the investigation?"

"No. Another call came in within minutes of their arrival on the scene, and I reassigned them to that case."

The questions went on, sometimes going back to cover issues already addressed, and Grissom's responses became briefer, his tone slightly more clipped. His headache had intensified as his irritation with the IA captain grew. He was ready for the inquisition to end.

When Garza paused for a moment, Grissom thought perhaps the interview was over. He was wrong.

"How well do you know Nick Stokes?" the captain asked. "He's worked for you – what? – six years?"

Grissom regarded him steadily. "You know exactly how long he's been with the department. And I know him well enough to trust his competence as an investigator and to trust his integrity."

"Yes. You recommended him for a promotion last year," Garza noted, almost as if thinking aloud. "From your earlier statements, though, it seems Detective Stevens didn't share your high opinion of him."

Grissom cocked an eyebrow. "Is that a question?"

Garza shrugged. "An observation. Your night shift crew didn't work all that often on Detective Stevens' investigations. Any idea why he was so antagonistic toward your man?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"That's going to be a little difficult since Stevens is dead," Garza said. "We can ask Mr. Stokes when we interview him. Of course, that won't be for a while yet," he added with calculated negligence. "It seems he didn't come through this quite as well as you did. He might be up to answering questions tomorrow, but the doc thinks more likely the day after."

Grissom clenched his teeth to hold back an uncharacteristic display of temper. The hollow sinking in his stomach had nothing to do with going almost thirty-six hours without solid food. He'd been concerned about Nick before, knowing that he was only aggravating his injuries by trying to dig his way out of the mine. Now his worry escalated even more with Garza's comment. He wanted to ask what the IA captain knew, but the expectant look on Garza's face told him that was exactly what _he_ wanted. Grissom decided he'd be damned if he'd give the man that satisfaction.

"Are we done here?" Grissom asked instead.

Garza signaled his partner to shut off the recorder. "For now," he agreed. "But we may have more questions later. I guess it's not necessary to tell you not to go anywhere," he added with a smirk.

Grissom watched as the two men turned to leave. McNabb trailed slightly behind his boss and managed to give Grissom a pained smile that was faintly apologetic. As soon as the door closed behind them, Grissom reached for the master control clipped to the side of the bed that was an all-in-one TV remote, telephone, and call button.

With any luck, his resident Florence Nightingale wouldn't be too busy to help him with a little investigation.

_To be continued..._


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** More encouraging reviews! Thanks to all, and apologies for not responding to each one personally. Just 'cause I don't Which would you rather have me do -- answer reviews or write more chapters::grin:

Thanks _mucho_ to Maekala for beta work.

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Thursday Night**

Grissom closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. His headache hadn't eased since Garza's interrogation. He'd tried to distract his thoughts from the implicit accusations by turning on the television to one of the 24-hour cable news channels, but the drone of the commentator's voice had done nothing but set his teeth on edge. He ached with frustrated tension made worse by his inability to do anything about it.

He flinched at a light tap that told him he was no longer alone, and that he had failed to notice. He turned his head and saw Catherine standing by the wall partitioning the bathroom and closet from the rest of the room. She was smiling, but the smile seemed a bit tenuous and she looked like she was fighting tears.

"Catherine?"

She moved closer until she stood next to the bed, close enough to reach out and clasp the hand suspended in mid-air above his face. A breathy laugh escaped her lips at the same time a single tear dripped down her cheek. "Damn, it's good to see you!" she said shakily. "You had us all scared out of our wits, you know."

"I'm sorry," he said. The warm fingers wrapped around his were oddly comforting. Her thumb brushed lightly over the raw, red patches that were a reminder of his unsuccessful attempt to disarm Dan Stevens, and her other hand ghosted over a tender spot on his left cheek.

"It's a little late in your life to take up bare-knuckle boxing, isn't it?" she asked with a weak attempt at humor.

He answered her with a faint, wry smile. "I guess it is," he conceded.

"I know it's almost the end of visiting hours, and I would have been here sooner," Catherine said, "but I couldn't get past IA's watchdogs till Garza got your statement. Then I had to check on Lindsey, make sure she ate a good dinner. She heard about missing CSIs and this big, dramatic rescue and everything on the news, and of course I wasn't home this morning when she left for school, so she was pretty worried. I figured I'd just…"

"Stop," Grissom commanded. When she did, and looked at him with wide, startled eyes, he added in a softer voice, "You're babbling."

"Yeah, I guess I am," she admitted with a self-deprecating twist of her lips. "Bad habit. I know you hate it." She released his hand, turning to drag the visitor's chair close to the bed and sit down, her hands now clasped around her knees. "So…how are you feeling? Aside from the headache."

She knew him too well. His eyes closed briefly and he hitched the blanket up a little higher on his chest. He answered with a tiny shrug and a simple, "I'll live."

"I'd be willing to bet Garza's visit didn't help," she ventured, her voice taking on a slight edge. "That guy's a bigger jackass than Ecklie – who, by the way, seems only too happy he's been asked to review all the forensic evidence on this investigation."

Grissom refrained from comment, and Catherine's indignation flared. "Doesn't it piss you off," she demanded, "that he could even suggest you or Nick were in league with Stevens?"

"Of course it does," he admitted, but his chief concern at the moment wasn't the overzealous IA captain. "Have you been able to see Nick yet?" he asked.

Catherine shook her head regretfully. "No. Same problem – Garza doesn't want his statement influenced by anything one of us might say to him. Why?"

"Something Garza said," Grissom explained. "He insinuated that Nick wasn't doing too well. I asked one of the nurses to see if she could find out anything, but…" He left the thought hanging, unwilling to admit that he was both disappointed and a little angry that Angie hadn't gotten the answers he wanted before her shift ended and she went home to her family.

Catherine gave a slow nod as she leaned forward and again placed her hand over his. "I did get a chance to talk to his doctor," she said. "He's going to be fine, Gil. They're just a being a little cautious right now."

"Cautious about what?"

"Well, for one thing, he's got a pretty nasty infection from that wound in his leg. But they're giving him some high-powered antibiotics, so they expect that to clear up fairly soon."

She paused, and Grissom's hand tightened against hers. "You said 'for one thing,'" he prompted. "What else?"

Catherine took a breath before she went on, "He broke a couple of ribs and his collarbone. Warrick said he'd been trying to dig you guys out, and that…well, he kinda made things worse. The ribs shifting around bruised his lung, almost caused it to collapse. They operated to put his collarbone back together, and between the infection and everything else, they decided it was a good idea to keep him pretty heavily sedated for a while -- till his fever's down and he's not hurting quite so bad."

Grissom's eyes closed wearily. "'I banged up my shoulder some,'" he murmured, his voice pained. "That's what he told me, Catherine. I should have realized…"

"Hey," she said quickly, "don't blame yourself." She squeezed his hand again and lightly chafed his wrist. "I told you, he'll be fine. Both of you will be. And it's not like you were in any position to stop him," she added pointedly.

That much was true, he acknowledged silently. But it didn't make him feel any better.

Grissom gripped her hand with sudden intensity. "You have to try to talk to Nick before Garza gets hold of him," he said. "Garza's a shark. He'll be pressing for answers as soon as he can – probably before Nick is clear-headed enough to deal with him."

"Slow down, Gil," Catherine said, punctuating her words with a sly smile. "Warrick thinks he can get past the gate-keepers. He's working on it right now."

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Even though most of the visitors had now gone home and most of the hospital staff had shifted into their night-time "wait and watch" mode, the level of vigilance was slightly higher on the 3rd floor. The patients here, while not requiring the constant monitoring of the ICU, still needed more frequent attention. The duty nurses moved briskly from room to room, administering scheduled medications, recording vital signs, alert for any indication that a crisis might be brewing in one of the quiet, dimly lit rooms.

Warrick Brown had timed his arrival carefully, late enough to avoid the risk of encountering one of the IA investigators and during the time when an old college buddy, who was also an LVPD patrol officer, was on guard outside Nick's door. Darren Watson wasn't a close friend, but his path and Warrick's crossed often enough at crime scenes that they had never completely lost touch. Warrick considered it a stroke of purest luck that Darren had ended up tagged by Captain Garza for this particular assignment.

He approached his friend now, his movements intentionally slow, his expression one of worry that wasn't entirely feigned. At the sound of Warrick's plodding steps, Darren stood up from the plain, molded plastic chair in which he'd been sitting.

"Hey, Warrick," he said, his tone muted in deference to their surroundings. His expression was somber. "How ya doin', man?"

Warrick exhaled a long sigh and shook his head. "It's been a hell of a day, D.," he replied, projecting what he hoped was a convincing air of disappointment. "Can't say I'm glad to see you here. I was hoping Garza would have already had his little chat with my boy Nicky, so I could poke my head in and say hello." He ran a hand over his face and around to massage the back of his neck. "Damn," he murmured. "Poor guy's probably going nuts, wondering why none of his friends has been around, thinking we're all off catching up on our sleep while he's lying there all banged up and feeling like crap…"

Darren Watson huffed a humorless laugh. "Man, you can still lay on the b.s. with a trowel, can't you, 'Rick?" he asked rhetorically.

"No b.s.," Warrick countered, all innocence.

"Uh-huh." Darren smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. "So you're not gonna stand there and try to talk me into ignoring a direct order from an IA captain and let you through that door?"

Warrick assumed a look of mild contrition. "Yeah, I know, it's a lot to ask. But you know this whole IA thing is bull. I mean, come on. You've met Nick. He's a stand-up guy."

"Yeah." Darren rocked back on his heels and leaned into the wall behind him. He chewed the inside of his cheek and stared down at the floor. "Garza's a prick, that's for sure. But he could screw me over big-time if he wanted to." He glanced up sideways at Warrick. "I took the exam to become a detective last month. Next space that opens up is mine if I want it – and if there's no reprimands logged in my jacket. Ya know?"

"That's great, D.," Warrick said sincerely, reaching out to clap his friend's shoulder. He hadn't realized Darren was up for a detective slot. "Congrats, man. I mean it."

"Thanks." Darren straightened abruptly and stretched his arms, shooting back the cuff of his uniform shirt sleeve to glance at his watch. "I need some coffee," he announced. "Visiting hours ended thirty seconds ago, so no one's gonna be coming around now. I think I'll wander down there to the nurse's station, see if they've got a pot going." He walked away without saying anything else, leaving the door unguarded.

Warrick slipped inside the room before Darren had a chance to change his mind. The space was smaller than a standard hospital room, not intended for long-term use or for more than one or two visitors at a time. Warrick paused a moment before he crossed the three long steps to the bed where Nick lay, apparently asleep.

With his face washed clean of the dirt and dried blood that had covered it when Warrick found him, Nick looked even paler than he had against the grey stone of the mine. Only the neatly sutured gash on his forehead and the bruised-looking half-moons below his closed eyes lent any color to his face. His lips were slightly parted, the upper one swollen and also marked with tiny stitches, and Warrick could hear the faint hiss of his breathing. Wires connecting to a multi-purpose monitor snaked out from beneath the thin cotton hospital gown draped loosely over Nick's chest. The audible output had been muted, but Warrick watched the steady progression of the green LED tracery across the screen. The pattern was reassuringly steady even if still somewhat faster than normal. A blood pressure cuff around Nick's left arm inflated automatically at pre-set intervals. The most recent reading, still displayed on the monitor face, was an encouraging 105/70, a considerable improvement over what the paramedics had recorded at the time of his rescue. An IV ran into the same arm, and his forefinger sported a pulse-oximeter clip.

"Nicky…Nicky," Warrick said wearily. His memory superimposed an image from two years earlier, when Nick had been tossed out a second-floor window, onto the present view of his friend looking even more battered than he had then. "You gotta quit doing this, man."

Warrick's attention sharpened when Nick's breathing changed and the hand resting across his stomach twitched. Beneath the sheet and blanket, his legs moved restlessly, eliciting a small pained sound. Warrick placed a light hand on his uninjured shoulder.

"Take it easy, Nick," he said soothingly. "You're gonna hurt yourself if you move around too much."

Nick's eyes opened a slit and his head turned slightly in response to Warrick's voice. His brows furrowed as he visibly struggled against the drugs coursing through his system to focus on the shape beside him. "'Rick?" he queried in a soft, rasping whisper.

"Yeah, man, I'm here," Warrick confirmed, leaning a little closer. "Didn't mean to wake you up," he added. "I gotta tell you, man, you need your beauty sleep."

Nick's hand lifted a few inches to wave away the apology and the feeble joke. "'S okay." His words were slurred like a drunk's, and Warrick had to strain to hear. "Been 'sleep…hours…"

"There's a reason for that," Warrick told him, relieved that his friend seemed reasonably coherent despite his drugged state, and considerably less feverish than he had when he was carried from the mine.

"Yeah," Nick agreed with the barest hint of humor. "Drugs. Good…drugs…"

Warrick breathed a small laugh and patted his friend's arm. "I just bet they are."

Nick frowned suddenly, and he fixed a still slightly wavering gaze on Warrick. "Grissom?" he asked. "'S okay?"

"He'll be fine," Warrick assured him. "Don't you worry about Gris."

"'S'good…" Nick's eyes closed, whether with relief or because the drugs had for the moment gotten the upper hand Warrick wasn't sure. He hadn't drifted off, though, because his frown deepened as he tried without success to lift his right arm. Even that small movement dislodged the gown enough for Warrick to see that a soft Velcro band encircled his upper arm and tethered it to a wider strap around his chest. A thick bandage covered the incision where the doctor had opened his shoulder to piece together the shattered collarbone. A faint moan spoke of his discomfort.

"Nick, be still," Warrick ordered, his tone firmer, and was relieved when Nick obeyed the command and even managed to peel his eyelids apart again. "Listen to me, Nick," he went on. "I gotta make this quick. I'm not even supposed to be here."

Nick blinked slowly, and he lifted his head a scant few inches, as if the urgency in Warrick's voice compelled a response.

"Sometime soon, maybe tomorrow, IA's gonna come talk to you," Warrick warned. "Stevens died in that cave-in, and Garza's got it in his head that maybe you or Grissom, or both, were helping him hide that two mil."

"Wha…?" That caught Nick's attention, and he tried to sit up further, prevented from doing so by Warrick's restraining hand. "'s'crazy," he protested, his voice rising slightly in surprise as his head flopped back down on the pillow.

Warrick briefly tightened his grip on Nick's good arm, hoping to reassure him. "I know it is," he agreed. "Nobody who knows you guys believes it for a minute. But Garza's not gonna back down just 'cause somebody else says he's way off base. You gotta be ready for him, man, and don't let him get to you. Can you do that, Nicky?"

Nick nodded. "…keep m' cool," he promised.

Warrick looked up in mild alarm when the door opened. Darren Watson stuck his head and one arm inside and gestured urgently. "The nurse is just two rooms down," he said. "You gotta get out of here."

"Thanks," Warrick said. He returned his attention to Nick. "Go back to sleep," he said quietly. "You're gonna need your strength tomorrow." With a last quick pat on the arm, he left the room, not at all sure that when confronted with Garza and his accusations, Nick would be able to keep his promise.

_To be continued…_


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **More chapters coming up! This one is kind of a filler. Nick fans, hang in there; our boy will be back next chapter!

As always, thanks to Maekala for catching my typos and such.

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Thursday, Late Night**

Catherine went straight to the crime lab after one of the nurses finally insisted that she leave almost thirty minutes after the official end of visiting hours. She was early for her shift, but she knew there would be work waiting, and she wanted an update on the case.

_The case._ Those simple words made everything seem so impersonal – just another set of evidence to process, another puzzle to unravel. Yeah, right. Cases didn't get much more personal than this, and solving this puzzle held critical importance for two men she highly regarded. She found little solace in her temporary elevation to night-shift supervisor while Grissom recovered from his injuries; the call from the lab director confirming that change had included the warning that all evidence related to the case was to be reviewed and signed off by Conrad Ecklie -- the smarmy, ass-kissing bastard. Not for the first time, Catherine was grateful for the years she had spent as an exotic dancer. She was quite capable of smiling and never missing a beat even while she wanted nothing more than to hurl her most recent meal directly onto his neatly polished shoes.

She settled in behind Grissom's desk to review the results of the evidence the lab techs had processed throughout the day, trying to fill in the gaps before Warrick and Sara arrived and demanded an update. She wasn't entirely surprised when both her teammates also showed up early, too, allowing her barely enough time to glance at the reports.

Warrick was looking a little less stressed than he had the last time she'd seen him, but Sara glowered when she took a seat at the layout table they'd chosen in favor of Grissom's crowded office for their meeting.

She gave them both a brief account of her visit with Grissom, and passed along the message that he expected them all to do their jobs and try not to antagonize IA any more than necessary. As usual, he was determined to let the evidence speak for itself, confident that Garza would accept, soon enough, that Stevens had been acting without help from either of the CSIs.

"I hope Nick's able to keep it together when they get in his face," Warrick said worriedly. "If he's still as woozy when Garza interviews him as he was tonight…"

Catherine made a face. "Yeah, and it would be just like Garza to ignore the rule that says you can't take a statement from someone who's under the influence of drugs that might impair their judgment," she said sourly. "But unfortunately, we don't have any control over that. Now, let's see what we have in the way of evidence…"

She flipped open the folder in front of her and began scanning the various lab reports. "It's clear Stevens was the only one to handle the money recently; Sara found only his prints on the bags. And we know Stevens had disarmed our guys. Greg got the DNA back on the tissue from under Stevens' nails, and it's definitely Grissom's. I saw the defensive marks on his hands, too. Then there's the GSR."

"Greg found small traces of GSR on Grissom's sleeves," Sara put in, illustrating her statement by lifting her own hands off the table where'd they been tightly clenched. "But only on the undersides, and in a distinct linear path. It's the kind of pattern you'd see if they were grappling for the gun when it went off. Stevens got most of the spray, but Grissom was in close enough proximity to catch some of it, too." Her eyes suddenly widened. "Oh, my god," she murmured. "Is that how Nick got shot? A stray round when Grissom tried to get the gun away from Stevens?"

Catherine shook her head. "No," she assured her. "Grissom gave me the Reader's Digest version of what happened. Nick was already down when he tried to disarm Stevens."

Sara's features relaxed fractionally, and Catherine knew what she'd been thinking. Even Gil Grissom's detachment would have faltered if he'd been directly responsible for one of his people being injured. She'd already seen a crack in that detachment when he realized that he'd failed to recognize the severity of Nick's shoulder injury.

"The rest of the physical evidence," Catherine went on, returning her attention to the file, "is pretty sketchy, and doesn't really prove anything one way or the other. Warrick, do we have anything on the other body?"

"A little," Warrick replied. "We got a positive ID -- Jerry Gannon. Got a rap sheet for some small-time stuff. In fact, he'd only been out of the joint three months when the SunWays heist went down. He did have previous ties to Mahler, so they tried to locate him for questioning after the robbery. Here's where it gets interesting," he added. "Stevens put it in the case report that Gannon left town about the time of the robbery – based on word from a confidential informant." He cast a quick glance at the two women seated near him. "Pretty good way to cover his tracks if he'd already ID'd Gannon, got him to spill where the money was hidden, and capped him so he didn't have to share."

Catherine shrugged. "Circumstantial," she said neutrally. "The tell is that while Grissom and Nick were checking the inside of the mine, Stevens arrived and went straight to the shack where the money was hidden and started loading it up in his own car. Gannon was shot, wasn't he?"

Warrick nodded. "Two bullets to the chest. One went through, hit the rocks behind him. It's too deformed to do anything but match the weight. Doc said the other pierced his heart andlodged in his spine. It's damaged, but Bobby D. thinks he can get enough detail off it to tell whether or not it came from Stevens' gun."

"Any chance we can match it to the bullet that hit Nick?" Catherine asked hopefully.

"Didn't find it," Warrick replied grimly. "Nick's wound was a through-and-through. I found the edge of the blood pool where he first went down – most of it got buried, though – but without knowing where Stevens was when he fired, it's hard to know where to even start looking. We'd have to go back and comb the walls and the ground inch-by-inch to find the bullet. There's still no guarantee we'd get anything – not if it's lost in that pile of rocks."

Catherine hadn't really expected anything else. She closed the file, laying both hands flat on top, and regarded her diminished team. "Okay. It looks like we've done everything we can right now for the guys. I'll try to get clearance for us to go back and look for that lost bullet, but it's…" She broke off abruptly and looked up at the doorway where Conrad Ecklie had come to a halt. She managed a neutral smile. "Conrad. You're here late."

"Needs of the times," Ecklie replied. He stepped forward and handed Catherine a small collection of papers. "New cases called in within the last half hour," he explained unnecessarily as Catherine quickly scanned the printouts. "And I need to speak with you."

Catherine quickly divvied up the calls requiring immediate response and waited for her teammates to leave on their new assignments. When they were gone, she lifted a hand to Ecklie in a "take a seat" gesture. She tried to read his expression, but saw nothing except a hint of fatigue.

"Is that the case file?" he asked, pointing at the brown folder against which her forefinger tapped a terse rhythm.

"Yes." She slowly pushed it across the table to him, meeting his questioning gaze with a faint challenge. "I understand you've been given authority to review all the evidence. Knock yourself out. You won't find anything to suggest our guys did anything wrong."

Ecklie accepted the file and studied the same information Catherine had read just a few minutes earlier. "I hope that's true," he said. After a moment, he looked up. "Look, Catherine, I know this whole IA thing has everyone in the lab pretty worked up. And it probably won't surprise you that opinion comes down heavily in support of Grissom and Stokes."

"Doesn't surprise me at all," Catherine agreed. She leaned slightly forward, her hands pressed flat to the table to keep from balling them into fists. "They're both good men, Conrad – _honest_ men."

"And if that's true, the investigation will bear it out, and when it's over they'll go on with their lives. But a crime was committed, Catherine, and it involved at least one cop. IA has to investigate. It's procedure."

Catherine stood abruptly. "Screw procedure," she said sharply. "You know as well as I do, Conrad, that once IA gets its sights on anyone – beat cop, detective, CSI, _anyone_ – nothing ever goes back to normal. That cloud of suspicion follows them everywhere for the rest of their lives. If they so much as drop a gum wrapper in the parking lot, it ends up as a footnote in their file, because IA _never_ closes a file once it's open."

_To be continued…_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Friday Mid-Morning**

Nick drifted through a dense fog, too uncomfortable to remain asleep, but too drugged to focus completely on his surroundings. He knew he was in a hospital; very few places on Earth offered such dismal décor and narrow beds with linens starched to within an inch of their lives. And absolutely nowhere but a hospital came complete with monitors and IVs and tubes in places they had no business being.

They hadn't even provided him with a television or a window to help him gauge the time of day – whatever day this was. He vaguely remembered someone bidding him good morning before sticking something briefly in his ear and turning back both bed linens and the loose side of his gown to slap a cold instrument of some kind against his chest. But he'd been even groggier then, and he had no idea how much time had passed since. The whole episode lingered only as a half-forgotten dream.

He tried to blink away another layer of the fog and automatically started to raise his right hand to his chin, itching with the need for an overdue shave. The move, aborted by some kind of restraint around his arm, sent sharp pain lancing through his shoulder and chest, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. He tucked his chin and rolled his eyes downward, seeing the blurred outline of a bandage under the edge of the ugly hospital gown. Surely those little blue shapes were circles, not flowers?

Okay, so that hand wasn't going anywhere. He lifted the left one instead, feeling another slight resistance. A blue plastic clip taped to his first finger added an unnatural weight to his hand, the wire attached to it running back toward a cart-mounted box beside the bed. The clip pinched uncomfortably over skin scraped raw and almost beat out the sting of the IV needle taped in place over the vein inside his arm for its capacity to annoy. Wow. They must be feeding him some heavy-duty stuff to opt for the forearm instead of the back of his hand. It wasn't quite enough to dispel the overall feeling of aching misery, and he really wished someone would bring him another blanket. Even though his skin felt tight and itchy, as if from a bad sunburn, a chill radiated from deep within his bones.

He got no further in his self-inventory before the door opened, allowing a shaft of stronger light to spill in from the hallway outside and admitting two newcomers to the small, nondescript room. One he pegged as a nurse, judging by the colorful scrubs she wore and the medication tray she carried in and set down on the metal cabinet that served double duty as a bedside table. The other woman wore a white lab coat over plain green scrubs, and he could see just enough of her nametag to distinguish the M.D. after her name. She reminded him a little of Sara, lankily tall with a narrow, intense face framed by shoulder-length brown hair. But the doctor's hair was streaked with gray. She wore even less make-up than Sara, and wire-framed glasses magnified pale blue eyes edged with the beginnings of age lines.

"Mr. Stokes, I'm Dr. Gentry," she said briskly, flashing him a brief smile as she came to a halt beside the bed. The nurse continued around to the other side and began recording the readings displayed on the monitor, inflating the blood pressure cuff wrapped around his left arm.

Nick started to return the greeting, but failed when his voice came out as a scratchy whisper. He had better luck after the nurse held a cup close to his mouth and allowed him to drink a few sips of cool water.

"What day is it?" he asked, wanting a clear sense of how long he'd been drifting around in that weird twilight state where nothing seemed quite real.

"Friday," the doctor told him. "You were admitted yesterday morning. Do you remember being injured?"

He nodded. That part was all too real. "Mine cave-in," he responded promptly, and he couldn't quite suppress a frown as he added, "after I got shot." He glanced down at the leg that was slightly elevated beneath the bed covers. The entire limb throbbed in time with his pulse beat.

The doctor graced him with another small smile and went to work checking the wound while the nurse took his temperature again, announcing that it was down to 100.1. "That's quite an improvement," Dr. Gentry said approvingly. "All those antibiotics you've been getting since you came in seem to be doing the trick. The wound is draining well, and the infection seems to be under control." She rearranged the sheet and blanket over his legs. "Just try not to move around too much. I left a small tube in place to help it drain and reduce the swelling."

She methodically checked the surgical incisions left from the repairs to his collarbone and ribs, and listened to his lungs, seeming satisfied with the result of her examination. She folded her arms and regarded him steadily for a moment before she said, "I've been asked by a Captain Garza to notify him as soon as you're lucid enough to give a statement."

Nick rubbed an eyebrow, trying to bring a vague, drug-shrouded memory into clearer awareness – Warrick's voice telling him something about IA, mentioning the same name. "Is he here?" Nick asked, feeling a faint pang of apprehension. No one he knew had anything good to report about their dealings with IA, especially since Garza had taken command of the unit.

"Not at the moment. I told him I'd call him when I thought you were ready to answer his questions. Now, even though you're doing very well, considering that you've only been here 24 hours, I'm a little reluctant to subject you to that kind of stress." The corners of her mouth pinched in a slight grimace. "He is not a pleasant individual to deal with. You still have some fever, and you're due for another shot of morphine to keep your pain under control."

He had to admit the longer he was awake, the more acutely aware he was of his injuries. But he'd rather go ahead and get his encounter with IA out of the way rather than have that dread adding to his physical misery.

"I would recommend that you postpone your meeting with him until tomorrow," Dr. Gentry suggested. "I realize you're probably anxious to be able to have your friends visit, and I know they've been asking about you quite often, but you need time to regain your strength."

"No one's been here?" Nick asked, confusion twisting his features despite the pull on the stitches in his forehead and upper lip. "But I thought…I remember…"

Dr. Gentry shook her head. "No one has been allowed in except medical staff," she told him. "Captain Garza has had a guard outside your door since you came out of surgery."

Nick stared up at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the fuzzy memory of Warrick's voice, Warrick's face floating in the dim haze of drugged semi-awareness, with Dr. Gentry's assertion that he was not allowed visitors. The effort defeated him, and he closed his eyes, shoving the discontinuity into the recesses of his mind to deal with later. "Might as well get it over with," he said after a pause. "Waiting won't help his disposition any."

"How about a compromise?" Gentry suggested. "I'll tell him to come around later this afternoon. We can time it so the medication will have worn off enough for you to be a little more alert. In the meantime, you can rest, and we'll see if we can't get that fever down a bit more."

"Good plan," Nick agreed ruefully. "I gotta admit, I'm feeling a little rough."

"I figured as much," Dr. Gentry said with a knowing half-smile. "Usually the first question I get from young, otherwise healthy patients is 'how soon can I get the heck out of here?'"

_To be continued…_


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Friday, Late Afternoon**

Sara paused in the hospital corridor, tightening her grip on the plastic handles of a large shopping bag, drawing in a long breath. She told herself there was no reason to feel so uncertain. What was so odd about visiting an injured co-worker in the hospital? People did it all the time. It was a courtesy, a thoughtful gesture, nothing more.

Still, she wasn't certain if her arrival would be welcomed. This was Grissom after all – proud, usually preferring to maintain a certain distance even from the people he worked with most closely. He would probably think that being viewed as something less than completely capable and in control would somehow diminish his standing with his subordinates.

And then there was that whole issue of motivation. Despite the outward appearance of simple friendship, Sara admitted that she still harbored feelings for the man that went deeper than mere camaraderie. Beneath her outward acceptance that he would never reciprocate lay the irrational but persistent hope that he did, in fact, feel something for her, that only his sense of honor and fairness, his knowledge that a relationship between superior and subordinate could never be one of equal standing, compelled him to deny his feelings. Did she on some level hope that this close call would provide the impetus he needed to set aside that supposed denial?

_Keep this up, and you're going to talk yourself out of going in there,_ she thought sourly. And she raised a hand to tap lightly on the door before swinging it open just far enough to peer around the edge. "May I come in?" she asked when Grissom turned his head to look toward the door.

He waved her inside with a hint of a smile that became a questioning lift of one eyebrow as his gaze dropped to the large bag she carried.

"The gang sends their greetings," Sara said brightly, quietly damning the nervousness that made her voice rise in pitch. She tactfully refrained from commenting on the bruise discoloring one side of his face, instead concentrating on pulling out the contents of the shopping bag. She handed him the greeting cards in colorful envelopes several of the techs had asked her to pass along when they found out she planned to visit. "Those are from Greg and Archie and Bobby – some of the others, too." When he didn't immediately open any of them, she pulled the rolling tray-table closer to the bed and deposited a stack of printed material on it. "Catherine said you'd probably be bored by now, so we raided your office for all the journals and magazines you haven't had time to read yet. And we all know how you love classical music and opera…" To the stack of offerings she added a portable CD player and a collection of CDs.

His smile looked genuine as he said simply, "Thank you, Sara."

She returned the smile and hefted the bag again. _Keep it light,_ she thought. Aloud she cautioned, "Ah, but you haven't seen everything yet. Now, I figured the hospital probably has rules against patients having pets in their rooms, so…" She produced a black plush spider the size of a dinner plate with ridiculously staring yellow eyes and a stitched-on goofy grin. She plopped the toy squarely on his stomach. "He's a little bigger than your favorite tarantula," she acknowledged with a grin, "but I promise he doesn't eat much."

Grissom caught the spider between his hands when it started to topple off his midsection. He lifted it higher for a better look, and for a moment Sara wondered if he thought she was completely crazy for selecting such an immature gift. "He's actually rather – cute," he said with a crooked smile. "Thank you."

Sara sat down in the chair next to the bed and leaned back, her hands tapping a nervous pattern on the chair arms. "I had to go to six different shops before I found him," she told him. "Second choice was a two-foot caterpillar, but it didn't have nearly as much personality as Harry there. And it was a really putrid shade of green."

"I like the spider."

"I got a puppy for Nick – a Golden Retriever. He once told me they had a Golden when he was growing up, that of all the kids, it followed him around wherever he went."

Grissom's attention sharpened. "You've seen Nick?"

"No." Sara frowned and stared down at her hands as they scrubbed against her knees. "With any luck, I'll be able to stop by his room after this. The nurse said Garza's interviewing him now. After that, I thought it might help to see a friendly face."

"Yeah."

Sara looked up then and forced a smile, but she couldn't seem to relax the tension in her shoulders, and her gaze kept flitting away from his after only the briefest contact. "So, how are they treating you? Or maybe I should ask how you're treating _them._"

Grissom allowed himself to be distracted from thoughts of their beleaguered friend – at least on the surface. Who knew what went on behind that impassive exterior? "Considering the fact that hospitals are unpleasant places to be in general," he replied neutrally, "I suppose it's not so bad. And," he added wryly, "I haven't growled at a single nurse yet."

"I'm impressed. Of course, it's in your best interest to be good," she pointed out. "They definitely have the upper hand in this balance of power. All those needles… And I hear that cold water sponge baths are not something to look forward to."

He answered that particular remark with a vague scowl.

Sara mustered a smile. "So, tell me, is it just a cliché, or is hospital food really hideous?"

Grissom laced his fingers over his stomach and glanced down when he found Harry still occupied that space. His hands ended up resting on the spider's soft fur. "Actually, I don't have much basis for an opinion," he said. "So far, all they've allowed me to eat is some dry toast and a fruit puree that was oddly reminiscent of baby food."

Sara's chin lifted and her smile turned almost to a smirk. "Uh-huh," she said with slow deliberation. She leaned slightly forward, one elbow on the chair arm, her chin resting on her fist. "And you would know about the consistency of baby food – how? Even your phenomenal memory can't possibly stretch all the way back to infancy."

"Actually," he explained calmly, "when I was thirteen I had a mishap on a bicycle and broke my jaw. I couldn't eat solid food for four weeks. I got tired of milkshakes and chicken broth after the first three days, so my mother started giving me baby food for variety." His direct and unflinching gaze dared her to laugh at his tale of adolescent misfortune. So, of course, she did just that.

"I'm sure that made quite an impression in the junior high lunch room," she mused. "Everyone else had their cafeteria meatloaf, homemade tuna sandwiches, or PB and J, and then there's you with –" Another laugh escaped her twitching lips. "— baby food!"

His gaze moved past her, seeming to focus somewhere beyond the room's four walls. "No," he countered slowly. "At school it was mashed potatoes and Jell-O."

Sara rolled her eyes and looked away. She tried valiantly to banish the image of a young Gil Grissom, probably as intensely inquisitive and focused as he was now, slurping down strained peas and carrots and diligently cataloguing every taste, smell, and texture. "What kind of drugs are they giving you?" she asked suddenly. "They must be pretty weird, because you _never_ talk about personal stuff."

A brief lift of eyebrows and a palms-up gesture silently conveyed "oh, well," after which he deftly changed the subject by asking about their progress on the investigation.

She filled him in, and the last of her uncertainty about coming dissipated in the familiar exercise of question-and-answer and examining various suppositions and theories. Nor was their discussion limited to the fiasco on Harper Ridge. They had verbally dissected half a dozen pending cases when the phone cut through their musings.

Grissom fumbled with the all-in-one control, which also housed the phone receiver, wedged between the bed rails and the edge of the mattress. When he answered, he listened for only a moment before a brief "thank you" as he disconnected the device.

"That was a nurse named Tricia with a message for you," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Garza just left."

_To be continued…_

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**A/N: **This scene was not intended to be a shipper's delight, but it's rather difficult not to acknowledge that particular dynamic when dealing with Sara and Grissom. This is as shippy as I get -- which will be either a disappointment or a relief, depending on your preference. 


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** And now you finally get to see how Nick fares when he has to match wits with the ill-tempered IA captain -- after a little fluffy stuff. I've only got this one new chapter ready to post. Another should be along tomorrow night-- assuming my beta-babe doesn't get sidetracked.

Oh, and BTW, I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on television, so I apologize for any medical inaccuracies. My only "official" source is personal experience with stitches, fevers, and post-surgical pain.

Thanks to all who have sent reviews. I'm still a little strapped for time and haven't been able to respond individually to them. But I do appreciate the feedback.

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**Chapter Eighteen**

**Friday, Late Afternoon**

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Tricia, the nurse who had accompanied Dr. Gentry on her rounds earlier, carefully tilted Nick's chin up to wipe a stray streak of shaving cream from his throat.

Nick exhaled a long sigh, wincing at the sharp twinge in his shoulder. "It's not that I _want_ to," he said grimly. "But I know this guy's reputation. It's only gonna pi— make him mad if he has to wait too long to get my statement."

Tricia chuckled as she set aside the shaving supplies and picked up a comb. "You don't have to censor your language with me, Mr. Stokes. I grew up with two older brothers. 'Piss him off' is one of the milder phrases I've heard." She finished combing his hair, which he imagined had started to resemble Greg's on a bad day, and stood back to inspect her handiwork. "Much better," she said with a smile. "That whole refugee look just wasn't working for you."

"Thanks." He let his head rest back into the pillow and watched as she piled razor, cream, towel, and comb onto a tray and took it into the bathroom to clean up. "You really didn't have to do this, you know."

"Sure I did," she countered, raising her voice enough to be heard above running water. "It was bothering you, wasn't it? You kept scratching your chin, rubbing your cheek. Let me guess – you've never grown a beard. My oldest brother did the same thing until his grew in completely. Drove our mom crazy."

Nick closed his eyes and let Tricia's smooth, melodic voice calm his tense nerves and soothe away some of the discomfort that had grown more noticeable since he'd awakened. As much as he dreaded Garza's visit, he wished the man would hurry up and get here so he could get this over with and sink back into a drugged haze.

Tricia returned, and Nick's eyes shot open when a damp cloth pressed briefly against his forehead. "Sorry," the nurse said apologetically. "I didn't mean to startle you. You're perspiring."

"Yeah." Nick shifted slightly under her touch. "I feel kinda warm – thought maybe you turned the heat up since I was freezing earlier."

The conical temperature sensor tickled the inside of his ear. "No. It's the fever," she said. "This kind of thing isn't terribly unusual with the kind of infection you've got. Your temp will drop a few degrees initially, then fluctuate. Unfortunately, you're having a minor spike right now."

"Great," Nick murmured bleakly. His eyes slid shut again as he digested the unwelcome news. "Perfect timing."

"I really think you should call this off," Tricia said. "And I know Dr. Gentry would agree."

Nick shook his head. "By now Garza's on his way. If I call it off, he really will be pissed." He heard Tricia opening a drawer in the bedside cart, and a moment later she touched his arm and asked if he could sit up a bit. When he opened his eyes he saw her holding a flat, square pad with wires trailing from one corner. "What's that?"

"Temp pad," she said. She helped him sit up far enough for her to slide the sensor pad beneath his back. "It connects to the monitor," she explained as she plugged in the leads and checked the output. "I can switch everything to remote and keep an eye on your vitals from the central console at the nurses' station. If your fever goes too high, or if anything shows that you're getting over-stressed, I can intervene. If necessary, Dr. Gentry will insist that they leave."

"Okay." Nick gestured vaguely toward the cart. "Any water over there?" he asked.

Tricia handed him a container that looked something like a sports bottle. The sealed lid kept the liquid from spilling too badly if he should drop it, and a bendable straw enabled him to drink from almost any angle. "Hang onto that. You haven't done very much talking yet, so your throat will probably dry out pretty quickly. Do you want me to leave the bed angled up, or lay it back down?"

"Up's fine," he assured her. He felt at somewhat less of a disadvantage if he was at least partially upright.

She nodded before picking up the syringe she'd brought in earlier and uncapping the needle.

"What's that for?" Nick asked, half afraid that anything she gave him now would further blunt his already questionable mental processes.

"It's just acetaminophen," she assured him. "For the fever." She deftly opened the infusion port in his IV line, halting as the door swung open abruptly and two men entered.

Nick immediately recognized Captain Garza, even though he'd never actually met the man. The other he knew he'd met at some point, but couldn't recall his name. The second man looked decidedly uncomfortable when Garza pinned the nurse with a hard stare and ordered her out of the room.

Tricia returned the look unflinchingly and went about the task of injecting the IV line. "I'll be finished in a moment," she said coolly. "Mr. Stokes needs his meds on a regular schedule."

Garza folded his arms across his broad chest. "The doctor said he wouldn't be medicated during the interview."

"Dr. Gentry agreed to postpone any sedation or pain medication," Tricia corrected. "The antibiotic and fever reducer he still needs on a specific schedule for them to be effective." She finished the injection, recapped the needle and deposited it in the wall-mounted sharps receptacle.

As she turned to leave, she gave Nick a brief, encouraging smile and said, "If you start feeling nauseous or dizzy, or if the pain gets too severe, buzz me immediately." To Garza and his sidekick she warned, "Dr. Gentry left strict instructions that you're to limit your visit to half an hour."

When Tricia had gone, Garza made the formal introductions while his companion arranged a tape recorder on the tray table he moved into position over the bed. His seemingly perpetual scowl morphed into an unpleasant smile as he looked past Nick to the monitor beside the bed, which still dutifully recorded heartbeat, respirations, and blood oxygen. A new LED window now tracked temperature. "Well, look at that," Garza mused. "Not quite a polygraph, but it'll sure tell me if answering questions makes you nervous."

Nick turned just in time to see the glowing green line jump fractionally higher and faster, and he silently cursed his involuntary reaction to Garza's implicit threat. It was way too early in the game to let the IA captain get under his skin.

Garza gave him no time to frame a retort, instead signaling McNabb to start the tape and taking out a dog-eared notebook. "This is a formal statement and will be entered into the record of this investigation," he said, then went on to record the preliminaries of day, date, time, location, and participants in the interview.

Garza's initial questions covered the basics: what happened when, how, and to whom. Nick answered them easily enough, trying to keep his responses as economical and direct as possible. He took frequent small sips from the water bottle to ease the dryness in his mouth and throat, surprised at the effort required to keep his voice even. Funny; he'd never really appreciated the energy needed to speak without sounding like a winded runner. And Garza had made him uncomfortably aware of the monitor just beyond the edge of his peripheral vision.

A long pause when he finished sketching the broad strokes of the story afforded McNabb an opportunity to exchange a look with his captain and remark, "Almost exactly the way Dr. Grissom described it."

Garza shot his subordinate a dark look before turning his attention back to Nick. "Were you aware that Detective Stevens would be joining you to carry out the search?"

"Yeah. I was standing right there when Grissom called to tell him he might have a new lead on the missing money."

"And that didn't bother you?"

Nick frowned, unable to fathom the intent behind that question. "No." He drew out the word just slightly. "He was the lead detective on the armored car robbery. It was standard procedure to notify him."

"I understand you don't get along with Detective Stevens."

"I do my job," Nick told him, "no matter which detective is on the case."

Garza peered at his notes for several seconds before he asked, "What's your beef with Detective Stevens?"

"I didn't have a beef with Stevens," Nick retorted, stung by the accusatory undercurrent.

Garza's eyebrows lifted in apparent skepticism. "Really? Your boss indicated that Detective Stevens seemed to go out of his way to try to goad you into a confrontation. Why would he do that if there wasn't already bad blood between you?"

"Maybe because the guy was a jerk," Nick shot back. He clamped his teeth together and took a couple of deep breaths through his nose, trying to bring his temper – and a sudden jolt of pain in his shoulder – back under control.

"So, he was a jerk," Garza paraphrased thoughtfully. He rocked back slightly and looked away into the distance. "I find it interesting that you keep referring to Detective Stevens in the past tense," he mused. "Why is that, Mr. Stokes?"

Nick stared at Garza's averted profile. "Wh--? He's dead, isn't he?" he asked, confusion and the effort required to keep his thoughts in some semblance of order making him feel even more light-headed than even his current physical condition justified.

Garza's dark, stony eyes pinned him again, giving away nothing. "As a matter of fact, he is," he agreed. "But I didn't tell you that. How did you know Detective Stevens was dead, Mr. Stokes?"

Nick didn't need to look at the monitor to know that his heartbeat suddenly accelerated. He felt the heavy thump against his breastbone, and his pulse echoed through each of his limbs. He couldn't answer immediately, his voice frozen by a paranoid certainty that Garza would twist whatever response he made. Fragments of disjointed memories drifted through his awareness – staring up through a red-tinted haze as Stevens and Grissom grappled for possession of Stevens' gun; shots echoing through the rocky chamber; the rumble and crash of falling stone, Stevens stumbling away as he tried to evade the killing rain of rock. Through it all he heard the ghostly echo of Warrick's voice. _Hang in there man…Stevens died…IA's gonna come…not supposed to be here…not gonna back down…_

With a soft, wordless sound that was as much a gasp as it was a desperate laugh, Nick rolled his head back into the pillow. "Is that what this is about?" he asked. "You think I was somehow responsible for Stevens getting killed?"

Garza answered with a negligent shrug. "You tell _me_, Mr. Stokes. Detective Stevens can't speak for himself. So all I have left is you and your boss, and whatever evidence wasn't lost in the cave-in."

"Stevens planned to kill us," Nick said with careful precision, forcing his tone to remain even. "I'm sorry he's dead. But he kinda brought it on himself. Ya know? Anything I did – anything Grissom did – we were just trying to stay alive."

"So, the idea that if you made it out and Stevens didn't," Garza went on without missing a beat, "you could do whatever you wanted with that two million dollars never entered your thoughts?"

"No."

Garza's hard stare openly conveyed disbelief. "Oh, come on," he scoffed. "You've got a line on two million bucks that's already been missing almost a year. It wouldn't be that hard to make sure it stayed missing a little while longer. Are you really going to tell me you weren't just a little bit tempted?"

Nick met the IA captain's gaze directly. "That's right." He didn't miss Garza's quick glance past him to the bedside monitor, obviously expecting to see some evidence of dishonesty. Garza seemed almost angry when his attention shifted back to Nick.

"What about your boss?" he mused. "Maybe Grissom suggested a little temporary partnership? Even split of the proceeds if you just played along and kept your mouth shut?"

"You obviously don't know Grissom," Nick snorted.

Garza tilted his head in a half nod. "You're right, I don't," he conceded. "I don't know either one of you – except by reputation. Of course, reputations can be manufactured – intended to mislead. Who knows what a man's really made of till he's put to the test?"

Nick didn't even blink. "Ain't that the truth," he said grimly. "Dan Stevens had a reputation, you know. He wasn't very well liked, but everybody thought he was a reasonably good, honest cop. And look what he turned out to be."

After a few more questions, which Nick answered with rapidly fading interest and energy, Garza seemed satisfied – if not with the answers he'd gotten, at least that he would gain nothing further by prolonging the interview. He signaled McNabb to shut off the tape recorder and tucked his notebook back inside his jacket. Nick exhaled a weary sigh that ended in a grimace, and closed his eyes.

"So, what now?" he asked, his voice roughened by fatigue and the pain that had grown steadily more intrusive.

"I'll be in touch," Garza assured him as he sauntered toward the door. "For now, though, I'll do what you CSIs are so fond of doing: I'll let the evidence speak for itself."

_To be continued…_


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: **I promised another chapter, and here it is. This is probably the last one until later in the weekend due to family stuff.

Many thanks to the die-hards who are still reading and reviewing.

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**Chapter Nineteen**

**Friday, Late Afternoon**

Tricia resolutely refused to look at the clock again. She knew it was late, that her shift should have already ended. But she also knew that Mr. Stokes' visitors had already exceeded the time limit Dr. Gentry had set for them by a considerable measure, and that she wouldn't leave until they did. She had tried once to interrupt, but had been unable to get past the uniformed officer standing guard at the door. She hadn't been able to call upon Dr. Gentry's authority; the doctor had been in surgery for the past two hours.

She couldn't even plead a medical emergency. Except for a few brief jumps in her patient's heart rate and BP, his vital signs had remained acceptably stable. And though his fever hadn't diminished as much as she'd hoped after that last dose of acetaminophen, at least it hadn't gone up.

When an hour had passed since the two detectives from Internal Affairs had gone into the room, she decided that enough was enough. She quickly prepared the injection for which her patient was long overdue, placed the syringe on a small metal tray, and strode purposefully down the corridor, prepared to shove her way past the officer if she had to.

She was spared that necessity. The door opened and the two detectives emerged, the older looking as unpleasant as he had on arrival, the other showing signs of disillusion with his superior. The captain paid her no attention at all as he told the uniformed officer he could go, but the other man politely held the door open for her. He even gave her a faintly rueful smile in response to the glare she leveled at him.

As soon as she set eyes on the man under her care she regretted not intervening sooner. His face was a study in misery. His eyes were closed, almost hidden behind the hand splayed over them. The muscles in his jaw twitched, and she could hear the hiss of breath between his teeth.

Tricia quickly uncapped the syringe, injected the strong pain reliever into his IV, and disposed of the empty in a series of swift, practiced moves. She looked back at him and realized that his eyes were now open and watching her, though still partially obscured behind his hand. "You can relax now," she said encouragingly as she pressed the control and lowered the head of the bed to a gentler slope. "That shot should take effect pretty quickly. In fact, you'll probably be asleep by the time your friend gets back."

Nick breathed a short, humorless laugh. "That man is no friend."

"Not him." Tricia took his hand and lowered it to the bed at his side. "A woman. She said her name was Sara and that you work together."

"Oh." Nick managed a faint smile. "Yeah. She does. Sara's okay." A tiny frown tightened his brow. "She was here before?" he asked. His eyelids were already starting to droop.

Tricia nodded but went about the business of making him as comfortable as possible, smoothing the sheet and blanket, removing the almost empty water bottle from its resting place against his left hip. "She came by while those two men were here," she explained. "She said she was going to go visit a Mr. – Grisham? – then she'd come back."

"Not Grisham. Grissom," he corrected. "Our boss."

His breathing seemed a little fast, and Tricia warmed her stethoscope between her palms before she slipped it beneath the open edge of his gown and pressed it against his chest, listening intently to the sounds of air moving in and out of his lungs.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his words starting to slur as the drug made its way through his system.

Tricia smiled reassuringly as she tucked the stethoscope back into the pocket of her uniform shirt. "Just checking to see if all the talking and the agitation overstressed that bruised lung," she said. "Is there anything else you need right now? I'm going off duty in a minute."

He shook his head, seeming unwilling to expend the energy to answer aloud.

"Okay. Dr. Gentry will look in on you when she does her evening rounds," she told him. "She's running a little late, but she should be along in an hour or so. What should I tell your friend when she comes back?"

"'S okay to come in," he replied slowly. "Can't promise I'll be awake…" His eyelids started to drift shut, and he forced them open with a visible effort.

Tricia patted his arm, leaving her hand in place an extra moment. "I'm sure she'll understand. Rest well, Mr. Stokes. I'll see you tomorrow."

She almost collided with Sara in the doorway, which opened just as she reached for the chrome handle. She took a half step back and looked up at the newcomer with an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

Sara looked past her – over her shoulder, actually, considering that she was a good five inches taller – to the bed where Nick appeared to be already asleep. "Should I come back?" she asked uncertainly. "I don't want to disturb him."

"He said it's okay to come in. Just don't expect too much in the way of conversation." Tricia looked back at her patient – okay, her favorite patient – and her smile disappeared. "He's pretty worn out. Those two men stayed a lot longer than Dr. Gentry wanted them to. And he's just had another round of his pain meds."

Sara nodded, her eyes clouded with concern for her friend. "Thanks," she murmured distractedly. "I'll just say 'hello' and sit with him for a while. If that's all right?"

Tricia lightly touched the other woman's arm. "Right now, I think having a friend close by is just what he needs."

The door closed quietly, leaving Sara alone in the room with Nick. Her lips lifted in a small smile when she mentally played back her brief exchange with the nurse. The woman radiated such a protective air; Sara suspected that if Nick hadn't already approved her visit, she would have found herself tossed out without a second thought.

She pulled the single chair close to the bed and deposited her shopping bag on the seat. She remained standing for a moment, her smile gone as quickly as it had come. Warrick had told her that Nick looked pretty banged up, and he hadn't exaggerated. Instead of his normal healthy tan, his face appeared faintly mottled, the admixture of the pallor of injury and illness with the flush of fever. His lip was still swollen, the miniscule stitches showing up as small black tufts against paler flesh. On his forehead, the bruising around an ugly laceration had darkened to blackish purple. A narrow swatch of dark hair had been shaved back from his natural hairline to accommodate the closely spaced sutures sealing the irregular wound. Even in drugged sleep, pain lines creased his face.

"Warrick's right, Nick," she said, her voice scarcely a whisper. "You've gotta quit doing this."

She startled when Nick's eye's opened, but quickly recovered her composure and smiled. "Hey," she greeted him warmly. She curled her fingers lightly around his and gave his hand a gentle squeeze; it would have to do in place of a hug that would probably hurt way too much.

He returned the gesture and the greeting, and managed to shape a semi-credible smile.

She reached into her bag and brought out the stuffed animal she'd chosen as a get-well gift. "Brought you a friend," she said, holding up the offering where he could see it. She'd chosen a soft, floppy puppy with long, pale gold plush fur and a band of red ribbon around its neck. It bore a remarkable resemblance to pictures of fuzzy little Golden Retriever puppies she'd seen on hundreds of calendars and posters. "See, the nice thing about this little guy is he doesn't have to leave when visiting hours are over."

She laid the puppy on the side of Nick's pillow near his uninjured shoulder. Her smile widened when he turned his head and pressed his cheek against the softness. She barely heard his whispered, "'s nice."

"I've got cards, too, from a bunch of the guys at the lab." Sara laid the stack on the bedside table and sat down in the now vacant chair. "I'll just leave them here. You can read them whenever…" Nick was losing the battle to keep his eyes open; Sara imagined him waking hours from now and wondering why there was a stuffed animal on his pillow.

"I saw Grissom," she said, pitching her voice to a soft monotone, letting her words lull him back to sleep, speaking more for her own benefit than for his. "He asked about you. I think you had him worried…imagine that. Mr. It's-Dangerous-Having-Empathy-for-the-Victims himself is showing serious signs of having empathy for a victim.

"You had _us_ worried, too, you know. But you're gonna be okay."

She leaned forward in the chair and slipped a hand between the cold bed rails to grasp Nick's fingers again. There was no answering pressure this time; he was asleep, unaware of her touch, her presence. A surprising single tear rolled unbidden down her cheek, and she brushed it away. "Everyone's anxious to see you," she said shakily. "Catherine will fuss over you, I imagine. Or maybe she'll fuss _at_ you for getting hurt again. Warrick will make sure you're up to speed on all your favorite teams. I bet Greg brings his laptop. He'll even come up with a way for you to play computer games one-handed. And once you're home, we'll take turns coming over to help you cook and do laundry and stuff. Of course, we'll try to do the same for Grissom, but he'll probably throw us out."

Sara's eyes closed momentarily and her lips pressed together to still their trembling. "I know you're not supposed to speak ill of the dead," she said flatly, "but right now I hope Dan Stevens is burning in Hell."

_To be continued…_


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **Back again after too long an absence. My apologies to all. Life (and a bout of writer's block) intervened again. I won't bore you with the details, but I really do feel bad about taking so long to update. Thanks to all who sent reviews and inquiries about my well-being. Unfortunately, I was only able to answer a few of them.

Also, thanks to my beta Maekala for making sure each entry is as error-free as possible.

**Chapter Twenty**

This was not the way Catherine Willows had planned her Saturday. She should have been off hours ago, relatively rested and ready to help chaperone a birthday skating party for Lindsey's best friend. Instead, her mother was once again filling in the parental void, and Catherine was breaking speed limits on her way to Grissom's townhouse, hoping to arrive in time to prevent undue damage.

In retrospect, she realized she should have anticipated something of this sort. Garza was determined to dig up some kind of dirt he could construe as evidence of complicity with Dan Stevens' larcenous schemes. What surprised her was that he'd actually been able to secure a search warrant on nothing more than his own unsupported suspicions – until she found out which judge had signed the warrant. Robert Laird had yet to deny IA any request submitted, no matter how flimsy the justification.

Grissom's call had found her still at the lab, struggling with the inevitable paperwork that was part and parcel of even temporary supervisory duties, and his words had impelled her to abandon the shift reports unfinished. "Get over to my place now," he'd commanded. "Garza got a search warrant, and he's on his way. I don't suppose he's called you about meeting him there like I asked him to?"

Of course she'd gotten no such call from Garza.

She saw them as she pulled to a tire-screeching halt. Garza and a uniformed officer were two steps from the front door. One of them carried a short pry bar that would irrevocably destroy the lock. Catherine let loose a long blast on the horn, drawing their attention to her as she killed the engine and threw open the door.

"Hold up!" she yelled. "I've got the key."

For a moment she thought Garza was going to ignore her and order the officer to pop the door by force. His face tightened with annoyance verging on anger. The uniformed man, however, stepped back, giving Catherine time to approach.

"What are you doing here, Ms. Willows?" Garza asked abruptly. "I'm carrying out a lawful search."

"That's a matter of opinion," she said curtly. "And I'm here to keep you from pissing off any more people more than you already have. Why didn't you call and ask for the key?"

Garza answered her with a seemingly negligent shrug. "You were supposed to be off duty. I tried calling you at home, left a message."

"Yeah," Catherine said dryly. "I'll just bet you did."

"Grissom called you?" Garza surmised as Catherine unlocked the door.

"Right after you left," she confirmed. "I guess he knows your style well enough by now to realize you'd take any excuse you could find to do more damage."

Garza bulled his way past her into the townhouse, forcing her to take a step back or be knocked down. "You've done your duty," he said dismissively. "You can leave now."

Catherine followed him inside. "Not a chance," she countered.

"Then stay out of the way."

"I'd like to see the warrant," Catherine said flatly. "I want to know exactly what the scope is."

Garza regarded her with disdain. "Are you the owner of this property, Ms. Willows?" he asked. "Or the owner's attorney?"

"No. But I am acting on Grissom's behalf, since he's unable to be present for this farce. But then, you know that, Captain Garza," she added, "since he specifically asked you to contact me to gain access to his home."

Garza made no other comments as he handed over his copy of the warrant. He didn't wait for her to read it before he began rifling through the contents of every shelf and drawer he could find. He wasn't particularly tidy, leaving books flopped over on their sides, papers disarrayed. Catherine bit her tongue to keep from objecting to his disregard for personal property, but knew that it would do no good and might just cause the IA captain to be even more careless.

The scope of the search warrant was limited to financial records and correspondence, both written and electronic, that would indicate either a motive for involvement in the second theft of the SunWays money or an existing relationship with Dan Stevens outside normal work contacts. Garza carefully boxed up three years worth of bank statements, cancelled checks and routine household bills, Grissom's laptop computer, and another sizeable file containing investment records. Catherine made sure he listed everything – and in excruciating detail – on the seizure inventory form.

Catherine's cell phone rang while Garza was busily delving into the depths of the bedroom closet, looking for exactly what, she wasn't entirely sure. She didn't recognize the number that came up on the caller ID, but assumed it was something at least quasi-official since very few people had this particular number. She retreated to the far side of the room for a semblance of privacy while she answered the call. By the time she flipped the phone shut again, her dislike of the IA team had swelled even more, and she had to grit her teeth to keep from lashing out at Garza.

The captain had apparently overheard her end of the conversation. His face assumed a false smile as he turned to see her glaring daggers at him. "Is there a problem, Ms. Willows?" he asked.

"None at all," Catherine replied, her own smile as counterfeit as Garza's. "And, by the way, don't imagine for an instant that we part company at the sidewalk when you're done here." She allowed a hint of venom to color her voice. "I'll be going with you when you search Nick's house, too."

His dark eyes expressed nothing to indicate how he felt about that pronouncement, which Catherine assumed was probably just as well. She certainly didn't want to get into a prolonged exchange with him about his tactics. Her temper was already frayed at having her plans abruptly tossed into disarray, and the call she'd just received from one of the nurses at Desert Palms hadn't helped. Apparently, Garza had made a stop by Nick's room as well. Nick had been sleeping at the time, and the IA captain had so considerately refrained from waking him, choosing instead to serve the warrant by depositing it on the injured man's bed for him to find when he woke on his own.

She couldn't quite contain the annoyance that bubbled to the surface. "Were you born a jackass," she queried, "or did you have to practice to get this good at it?"

He answered her with only a coldly cryptic smile before he announced, "I think we're done here." He walked out of the room and out of the house without waiting for her to lock up and follow.

The man drove like a maniac. Catherine lost sight of him several times on the drive to Nick's house. She finally gave up trying to follow his exact route, instead relying on her knowledge of the faster, if less traveled, roads to reach her destination at the same time as Garza. She was unwilling to trust that he would wait for her.

Again she reviewed the warrant, and again she found that its scope was strictly limited. Garza, standing with his hands planted firmly on his hips, spent a few minutes visually surveying the interior of Nick's home. His gaze swept the space, pausing with considerable interest on the new 42-inch flat-screen television, a sophisticated sound system, and the almost new laptop computer sitting on the table that served as both dining space and desk.

"Your boy certainly seems to like his electronic gadgets," he commented thoughtfully. "It looks like he's got quite a bit invested in them – and all fairly recently."

Catherine perched on one of the stools at the breakfast bar separating kitchen from living area. "Do you remember those storms we had a couple of months ago?" she asked. "The ones that knocked out power to half the city? Well, this neighborhood was pretty hard hit. In fact, lightning struck a transformer just down the street. The power surge fried home electronics all up and down this block – including Nick's."

Garza appeared unappeased. "How fortunate that he was able to replace everything with top of the line equipment," he observed. "But maybe he was expecting a windfall?"

"Only in the form of an insurance check, which covered a lot of the cost," Catherine replied with a tight smile. "But you'll see that for yourself if you actually bother to look at his finances."

As Grissom's had been, Nick's personal records were well organized. Catherine had noticed early on that the organizational skills honed on a job that demanded careful documentation and order tended to spill over into all of their personal lives. She silently blessed those habits; they meant Garza would be able to collect his spoils and free her from her responsibility that much sooner.

She once again made sure that every scrap of paper, every computer diskette, matched the seizure list the uniformed officer compiled as he boxed up the materials Garza indicated. As soon as he was done and started carrying the boxes out to Garza's sedan, Catherine turned to the IA captain. "I hope you've already started drafting your apology," she said bitterly. "You're going to owe both these guys a big one when this is over."

Garza's flat stare reminded her of a venomous snake's. "I don't apologize for doing my job, Ms. Willows."

"You're not doing your job," Catherine retorted. "You're just getting your jollies by making life miserable for two honest men."

This time when Garza brushed past her to leave, she didn't even try to follow.

_TBC_


End file.
